(III) - Where The Stars Of Terra Grow
by PhantomStag458
Summary: Nemesis Tessera has fallen, the Imperials are in retreat, Larn lies in a coma. Rescued by the Craftworld Eldar, the shattered forces of the Imperial Guard and Navy are pursued by the Chaos hordes to Cadia. With their backs to the wall the defenders of the Cadian Gate prepare to face the enemy in a confrontation that will decide the fate of the Imperium. Sequel to The Willing Flesh.
1. Prologue

**Cadia Secundus, Cadia, 06:16 (Cadian Time)**

The sun rose over the mist-covered valleys of the central highlands of Cadia's southern continent, a serene locale relatively untouched by the industrial hand of the imperium despite the world being the second most heavily-fortified in the galaxy.

Osvat Radu Zeleska knelt in the dew-covered grass and listened, eyes closed and with one ear up. The early morning air was so still he would not have thought there was a war on. The present fighting was far away to the north-east, several hundred kilometres in fact, only on good days when the wind was in the right direction did the faintest rumble of the heaviest artillery barrages reach as far as the southern continent. The war however was of no concern to Zeleska. Little people fighting insignificant battles that would have no more an effect on the imperium's affairs than a newly-sprung child could, Zeleska and the other acolytes of the inquisition were the real masters of the galaxy; their rule through fear ensured that the God-Emperor's reign endured.

Brushing the stalks of grass, Zeleska felt the dampness on his fingertips. He parted two of them and watched as they came back together, themselves entwining and each sharing their moisture with the other.

Beneath his tall, lace-up hunting boots were tracks that lead away through the field; freshly made. Zeleska had seen them immediately but had chosen to wait, wishing to widen the gap between him and his quarry and allow it to gain ground before closing in. He was doing what he loved best, besides women and drink. The pleasures hunting granted were immense, there was no greater thrill than stalking the target, sometimes for days on end before taking its life in a spectacular display of marksmanship; Zeleska himself being noted amongst the inquisition's ranks as a crackshot with any man-portable weapon in the imperium's arsenal. And once the target had been brought down Zeleska would be swift to add a fresh pelt to his immense collection, today however he would not be taking a pelt rather he would be taking a scalp belonging to his most favoured quarry; the abhuman.

 _Time to move on_ , Zeleska rose from the partial cover and carried on through the knee-high grass. Very soon his breeches were soaked through and his fine leather boots creaking, it was no great discomfort to him, he was used it being well-acclimatised to long hunting trips. His father Marcus had frequently taken him along with him starting at the age of seven. On the young Osvat's eleventh birthday his mother had suddenly left his father, remarrying and taking the name Zeleska. Osvat did not stop hunting.

 _Father_ , _I wish you could see me now, she how strong I have become,_ Zeleska thought, he had never seen his mother's new husband as his father, not even when he had fed him to his very own pack of cyberhounds. Zeleska knew his real father would understand even if he had not been here for him.

 _There is nothing nobler than carrying out the Emperor's will by hunting down and exterminating all that is impure. Know that I will not rest until each and every single subhuman degenerate is hunted down and purged in your name, father._

And this very subhuman would shortly be following the rest of his kind Zeleska smiled. In his hands he held an ancient sporting piece, older than the imperium itself, and one of his most treasured possessions along with his art collection. The rifle was a single-action, rotary magazine design, had a handcrafted wooden body, double-set triggers and a special downturned bolt facilitating the use of optics; today though Zeleska had chosen to fire over open sights. In his belt he had exactly twenty-eight cartridges, twenty-eight rounds of 160 grain .264 calibre left in the entire galaxy, but they would be twenty-eight shots well-used. Such rare ammunition was treasured for its stopping power, stability in flight and resistance to wind deflection and was perfect for long-range shooting. The rifle's name, long-winded and awkward, was difficult to pronounce being neither High Gothic nor Low Gothic but in an ancient language called Germanic that originated, as had everything human, from Holy Terra. Steyr Mannlicher-Schoenauer, the name did not roll off the tongue smoothly like the Gothic language did. Zeleska liked the Mannlicher but he liked it more when it spoke and an abhuman died.

For the past day and a half Zeleska had been in pursuit of the loosed abhuman, one of many kept in cages on his private vessel, an inquisitorial cruiser called the Zarkaniy that resided in one of Cadia's dockyards up in orbit. On foot for the duration he nevertheless refused to tire, keeping up a steady pace. To his approval so did she.

Zeleska's companion had remained in his shadow ever since they had started, never flagging, never complaining; she was perfect. Kora, not her real name but one granted her by her former master, a high-ranking inquisitor Zeleska did not know, followed him obediently as she had been trained to. It had taken time to coach her into obedience. He had had high hopes for Kora and wanted above all for her to succeed where so many others had failed, when she did so Zeleska wept tears of joy.

The former assassin was a perfect specimen: loyal, beautiful and tireless, both in the bedroom and out in the field, perfect in every way. There was no-one else Zeleska wanted by his side when on the hunt.

This was the first time Kora was away from the ever-present and ruthless eyes of Zeleska's bodyguard, it was only her and him, at least that was how it appeared to her. His men were watching from afar, they were always watching for any threats, any signs of treachery. The rifle Kora carried, a brand new clone near-identical to the Mannlicher but rechambered for the military .338 round was placed in her ownership as a means of tempting her, Zeleska had even let Kora load her own ammunition, smiling to himself as always, not that he intended to actually let her fire the rifle, it was all a big show to goad her into trying for him. Every little ploy would be inevitably stalled by the little hitch Zeleska himself was responsible for and that was the rifle's firing pin, he had ground the steel down enough that the weapon would not fire. And if Kora tried it she would incur his wrath.

"Come, Kora, we are gaining," Zeleska increased his pace. "I promised you a kill and I shall deliver."

He did not expect a reply. That was another thing, Kora never spoke unless spoken to and Zeleska liked it that way. Often he would look at her whilst she sat there obediently doing nothing. It gave him enjoyment, knowing he had power over her.

 _My my, prey of mine, you begin to tire,_ Zeleska's eyes gleamed on seeing the fresh tracks leading through the mist-covered wood turn and head uphill. The quarry was trying for the high ground, it was getting desperate.

The earth underfoot gradually hardened with rocky inclines springing up through the thick treetops. Piles of loose stones dislodged underfoot by the galvanised Zeleska trickled back down the slopes. Higher and higher he climbed. The Mannlicher was now slung over his shoulder with him holding one hand out for balance, he could sense, feel the gap closing.

It was then something happened that Zeleska had not anticipated, the sounds of a river were growing louder, no, a much greater noise was seeping through the gulley; the sounds of falling water.

 _Well well well_ , Zeleska found he could go no further when the path he had followed ended in a sheer drop, one of dizzying proportions. A waterfall cascaded from a point in the cliff a good hundred feet higher, falling all the way to an unseen pool lost in the spray and flowing in lazy, meandering curves down into the woods at the bottom of the valley.

"Our quarry eludes us," Zeleska said loudly above the roar when Kora was by his side.

"Observe," he pointed at the river in the distance, it would be a simple case of backtracking then following the river down to the valley floor. Once on a level plane the abhuman would find its pace slowing to a crawl and would have to regain the land, providing fresh tracks for its stalkers.

"Come, it is downhill from now on," Zeleska smiled and hitched the Mannlicher higher up on his shoulder.

Kora, despite hearing him, was rooted to the spot, her gaze on something Zeleska had not seen.

"Ah," he saw what had grabbed her attention. One of the monstrous spires that dotted the planet's surface had just been revealed by the lifting fog. It was several klicks, many in fact, to the east. At half a klick high it was tall enough to brush the sky. On overcast days its sharp point would be invisible, lost in the clouds.

"That is a pylon, there are thousands of similar constructs here and there," Zeleska took Kora by the shoulder and guided her away from the precipice.

"They are none of our concern."

In a dreamy, docile state Kora kept on her master's heels, her mind had been strangely drawn to the construct and could almost feel it beckoning to her. She found herself wanting to move closer, to get right up to the smooth surface and touch it. Oddly this was the first time that her master had not dominated her thoughts, his presence being replaced with an insatiable curiosity. Underneath it, something familiar stirred, a little voice, cowed and frightened, whispered urgently _run, run, run!_ Uncannily the voice was her own. Little pieces of her past life, like she was flicking through the pages of a book, dribbled into her consciousness, they was only fragments and did not form a clear picture; but her head, after being submerged for so long underwater, was nearing the surface. And there was something about that pylon.

With the cliffs to their backs, the two hunters made the descent from the valley slope in little time, working their way around to the fast flowing river that spat out from the rocks and continued on a downwards gradient. In this time Kora saw less and less of the man in front of her, not literally as she was still close behind, but as a companion. She began to wonder who he was and why she was following him or for that matter what they were in pursuit of. Glancing up through the treetops she saw the smooth, elegant construct looming over her and felt the tug again, no, more of a gnaw now. She dearly wanted to make for the pylon as if it would provide some form of salvation from the inescapable position she was in. There was a problem though, him.

Conflicting thoughts all jumbled together polluted Kora's head, the feeling akin to hammers pounding on sheet metal all at the same time. Confusion as the surreal fantasy she had inhabited fell away layer by layer until all that was left was the pylon and its call.

 _What am I? Where am I? Whose hands are these?_ Kora stared down at the rifle she was holding, a sporting piece ill-suited for combat. Around her trees grew at awkward, twisted angles, their bodies ensnared by parasites, giant vines originating from the ground entwining the trunks in a tight lover's embrace. The image of the trees ensnared by the vines stirred up images of Kora and the inquisitor with him doing things to her, humiliating and degrading, all so he could exercise control over her, such was his obsession with power.

 _Never again, never again_ , Kora's grip tightened on the rifle, she wanted to beat the inquisitor around the head with the stock and keep beating him until he was obliterated; make him an unperson as he done so many others. The ache in her groin and legs brought on hot tears of rage, a spasm in her neck and a twinge of a muscle in her cheek fanned the flaming anger that slowly arose inside her. Her hands were now hurting from holding the rifle in such a tight grip.

The inquisitor was twenty paces ahead but did not look back, he never looked back always his mind was on the hunt. Kora would make him pay dearly for his negligence. Stopping she knelt in a gap between the trees and slowly drew the rifle's bolt upwards and back a fraction, revealing the polished round resting in the chamber. Gently so as not to produce too great a noise Kora pushed the chamber closed and took aim at the inquisitor's back. Hearing her increasing heartbeat she calmed the rising tempo and exhaled slowly before waiting for him to find a gap in the trees.

 _Now_ , placed the blade sights squarely on the inquisitor's centre mass Kora gently squeezed the trigger.

 _Click._

The sharp unnatural sound, out of place in the forest caught the inquisitor's attention instantly.

"Kora!" he shouted whirling around, but Kora had already taken off.

Weaving through the trees Kora shut her ears to the compelling voice behind her only hearing the crash of boughs underfoot and the whipping of dead branches in her face, sharp and stinging. Furious at her bungling Kora cycled the rifle's action, catching the unfired round before it could fly free and turned, intending to loose an un-aimed shot back at the inquisitor. She heard the same impotent click as before and frowned. Her lips drew back in a silent snarl, the inquisitor's tampering was no doubt the reason, she had been given a disabled weapon; the entire hunt had been a farce.

Distant cracks pursued her flight uphill, the inquisitor's men, among them the hideous Argus and Lenz, were moving in. Each rifle shot, a loud crack preceded by a bang as it passed closeby, was a warning. Nobody would shoot to kill, only the inquisitor.

Cresting a ridge Kora burst through a thick cluster of branches and tore through a field of tall grass. The monumental pylon, a narrow, pyramid shape towered above Kora, an entire kilometre high and half as much in width. She did not know what would happen when she reached it, whether it would grant her salvation or damnation.

"Kora!" Zeleska, at the head of his six-man bodyguard, caught a glimpse of the running figure climbing up the embankment at the far end of the field; Kora was making for the pylon. Zeleska used to knowing her inside and out was confused and not a little unsettled, especially as he was certain, more than certain, that she was completely docile and under his thumb. He had even tested, at great risk to his own life, her loyalty before leaving the Zarkaniy.

He had sat her directly opposite him and ordered her to shave his face, during this he had gently begun talking about her past life, past acquaintances of hers, for the purpose of gently goading her into assaulting him with the razor. More and more he taunted and belittled, deriding each and every other person she had held dear, all the while expecting to feel the warm blade bite into his skin and the wetness of his blood. He had smiled widely when he saw the tears in her eyes. Not a single hair was left on his chin.

"Kora!" Zeleska held up a hand to stay his bodyguards when they spotted her.

"Do not shoot!" he slung the Mannlicher on his shoulder and moved cautiously over to Kora as his bodyguards spread out behind him.

"Kora?" Zeleska's eyes flicked up at the smooth grey surface then down to Kora again. She was standing stock-still with her back to him and had one hand resting on the monument's surface. Spying the fallen rifle, Zeleska kicked it away and reached a hand out.

"Now listen to me. _Listen_ to me," Zeleska spoke the activation phrase he had used on her during the conditioning process. "Remove your hand, Kora, from the pylon and turn around to face me."

No reply, no acknowledgment, Kora was dead on her feet.

"Your master commands you."

Zeleska's fingers closed around her arm and gently pulled, what he got then was a screech filling his ears, an alien wail tearing at his nerve-ends. Invisible hands picked him up into the air and hurled him backwards, landing ungainly he saw through a blur his bodyguards had all fallen and were lying motionless around him.

"Kora…" he reached out to her once more but found himself blinded by a bright green light.

Now facing him, Kora's arms were wide, her feet floating far above the ground, her body encircled by the light. When she spoke it was not in her own voice but rather rasping, hollow and utterly inhuman. Her eyes, normally wide and dark were now glowing green.

"I am Shesmet, the alpha…"

Her eyes fixed on the cowering Zeleska, "and your omega."

Green lighting crackled around the previously dormant pylon. The being known as Shesmet vanished.


	2. Chapter 1

_"War is hell, but that's not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead. The truths are contradictory."_

 **M41/03-40.999/Hellebore Class Frigate: Grace of The Mother/Nemesis System Boundary/Segmentum Obscurus**

* * *

"Fuckin' stickies," one man, in the process of operating a portable stove, muttered to another. "When the fuck we goin home then?"

"Are we goin home?"

"How the fuck I know, what do you want me to tell you?"

"You're a big help, Tind: nothin. Tell me nothin. I'll tell you somethin. We're sitting in the middle of an army o' stickies on this fucked up xeno bathtub, all they gotta do's flush this hangar– _wham_ –human problem solved."

"I know that."

"Yeah? Well, brood on it, Tind. Brood on it."

The same questions were uppermost in all of the human's minds. When do we go home?

Private Aimo Garst, blooded combat grunt of the Nerian 228th Infantry Regiment half-listened to the babblings of a scared seventeen year old private, a rear-echelon type that had been one of the first ones off Nemtess and therefore in the least danger out of anyone in the division. The babyface was crushing an unlit cigarette between his fingers without noticing.

"I just can't help how damn scared I am, right? I got a hiding from my step-dad he, he took to beating me raw when I was a nipper, I got scared, I used to run and hide out in the woods a lot of nights and uh, I never thought it'd get worse than that and least not in the Guard y'know. Now we, we got the shit kicked outta us on Nemtess and, and now the stickies got us good…" the babyface trailed off. Sticking the cigarette in his quivering mouth he began to chew it.

"What's your name, lad?" Aimo asked, raising his voice to make himself heard above the hundreds of displaced guard and navy personnel that were crowding the empty hangar bay.

"Why waste your breath?" Cyrano Semirechye, a stout bull of a cavalryman with a thick black beard, grunted. Like with most of the men he had been cut off from his command in the chaos of the evacuation. As far as he knew none of the others in his mounted brigade had escaped the frozen hell of Nemtess, he was damn certain no mounts had made it out alive either; all had been put down.

"No need to waste time with this useless would-be lifer," Cyrano tucked his white fur hat over his eyes and laid himself back down.

The babyface hadn't been listening and continued to ramble "…I mean I want to, I want to own a car when I get out, buy a house, marry a fat blonde girl with big 'ole tits…"

"What's your name?" Aimo said louder.

"Jacklyn, J-Jacklyn Cassius Molke," he said without meeting Aimo's eye. "And don't think o' me as no fucking rear-echelon motherfucker type, I, I did jump training six months back, y'know jumping outta planes? Well my, my gravchute failed to open first time and my, my jump master told me to go for the reserve if that happened so I did, that failed to open too so I just fell, fell and fell and fell. I was only in the air a few seconds, when I landed the wind got knocked outta me, broke my ankle too, that was that. Got shouted at cause they thought I did it deliberately, was only after I tried to get up I realised my ankle had gone but by then I was outta the gravtroopers for good."

Molke leant forward from where he was squatting opposite Aimo and pointed at Cyrano, "now don't think o' me as no fucking rear-echelon motherfucker type, just got a bad break that's all. It not for this ankle I'd be getting in the shit with you blokes wasting perfs left and right."

"Careful, lad, don't be wanting for something like that," Aimo met Molke's eye. "Might come to regret it."

"Says who?"

"Says I, only a limp-dick, no-buck, lifer, rear-echelon motherfucker type who's never seen a perf would say something as stupid as that."

"Aw come on…"

"You're in the guard, son, you don't want for anything," Aimo took out a cigarette from a crushed packet in the breast pocket of his sweaty, dirt-smeared fatigues. "You don't know Nemtess like we did. We lost friends, good people. You weren't there on the line with us. You're not a combat grunt you ain't seen the pink mist or sampled the sweetness of the confirmed kill."

"Yeah, well still plenty o' fighting goin' on out there, uh…"

"One word of advice, little boy, keep being scared, you're scared you won't try and be a hero, do something stupid. I had a mate did that, he got killed and never even realised it."

"How?" Molke asked, wide-eyed.

"Dunno," Aimo lit up and stared into space, deep in thought, "dunno."

"Lads, you haven't got anything in your first aid pouches have you?" A wiry, bareheaded medic toting an empty satchel appeared.

"Why you need 'em, doc?" Aimo enquired, blowing smoke his way. "Thought we were s'posed to leave the wounded behind."

"Any clean bandages, purification tablets, sulpha, plasma, scissors, anything you can spare, my kit's almost cleaned out."

"You look a bit put out, take a johnnie," Aimo tossed a sealed foil packet at the medic. "Sure someone round here'll service you, for a fee of course."

Aimo heard the tiniest sigh from the medic before he left. Beside him, Cyrano snorted.

"Uhh…" a voice came from Aimo's other side.

"It lives," Aimo said in a bored tone as Leo Wind, bleary-eyed and wild-haired, sat upright. Like with everyone else's kit, Leo Wind's flight suit was crumpled and bore signs of battle, being ripped and worn in places.

"What goes on here?" Wind asked, trying to sort his greasy, sticky hair into shape with a flimsy comb.

"Nothing, you go bye-byes again, lieutenant," Aimo grunted. "Nothing goin' on."

Mess Sergeant Gale, 'Breezy' to everyone, sat in the middle of his three cooks and listened to their nervous chatter. The cloud of cigarette smoke rising above the four-man gang would have made any normal person who approached immediately turn on their heel and leave, so thick and potent it was. Gale, not a heavy smoker himself, had strong sinuses which had grown stronger after he had taken to whiskey. A trick he had learnt when drinking the strong spirits was to press his tongue to the roof of his mouth so as not to let any oxygen in when he swallowed; it worked. Now though devoid of any real drink Gale had to contend to sit and listen to the shaky banter between his three cooks. Covertly he looked around at them. Weld, the tall, thin, silent one, efficient when he was sober but without the initiative to do anything unless specifically ordered. Scurm, nicknamed 'Scum', the other cook, overweight, lazy, petulant, loving to give orders but hating to take them and always complaining his authority was being flouted. Azar, the short-statured second cook, muscular and hard as a rock, a tireless worker who never stopped but doing it with a scowling, nervous intensity that could not be anything but abnormal. Unlike Scurm, Azar was more than willing, too willing to take on every bit of authority given to him. These three were the regulars of Gale's gang, all three had survived Nemtess on account of being attached to G Company's headquarters which, along with E, F, and H Company, made up 2 Neria, the 228th's second battalion. 2 Neria had been guarding the northern flank, the front furthest from the fighting and closest to the great frozen ocean. Unlike 1 Neria, 2 Neria's only casualties were from air attack.

Gale could not help but feel an outwardly hard, but inwardly soft, near tear-jerking sentimentality for all of them, the slobs. He had kept them closeby, sensing their nervousness, and only partly because he wanted them where he could keep an eye on them. After all they were aboard an enemy vessel and completely at their mercy.

The fact that the Stickies were now helping them made no sense to Gale, a six-year veteran. To him anything not of human origin was enemy, it didn't matter how benevolent the Stickies were acting, very soon, at least that was what he anticipated, they would turn on them and flush the hangar; why else would the Stickies let them aboard?

Wafting away the smoke, a medic was suddenly face to face with Gale. The latter made a face, his gang ceasing their conversation to stare at the medic.

"S'cuse me, sarn't, any medical supplies you got on you? My kit's cleaned out."

"We look like fuckin' Q Branch to you? We're cooks," Gale snapped.

"Git outta it," Azar jerked a thumb.

"Azar!" Gale chastised him then said to the medic, "Git outta it."

"Charming lot," Medic Ralph 'Ral' Bleak's cheery façade had slowly deserted him over the arduous and ultimately fruitless foray across the deck for medical supplies. Forced to leave everything he had behind for 1 Neria's battalion surgeon, one of many brave medical personnel that had volunteered to remain behind with the wounded on Nemtess, Ral now searched for plasma, morphine, even single bandages to take into his kit. In this state he was feeling increasingly like a fifth wheel, a soldier without his rifle. The reactions from the gangs of veterans ranged from coolly dismissive to outright aggressive as many no doubt felt that as a medic, Ral should have stayed behind with the wounded and not taken the easy way out. So many did not understand that medics did not save lives, medics made wounded comfortable as they died, with only a tiny handful of casualties taken back actually standing a chance of getting to the surgeon's table. Of those that reached the table even fewer would live with next to none coming away with a hope of returning fully fit to their respective units. Those that died under the surgeon's knives and saws were dumped in graves and/or harvested for body parts; the unlucky ones were taken to become servitors. The Imperium's currency was lives, Ral remarked, lives that were worth less than the weapons they carried and the clothing they wore.

* * *

Not a whisper left the curving walls of the frigate's Intensive Care Unit, everything was silent. Lying suspended above the smooth pale floor in row upon row of faintly glowing cocoons were Eldar, each in a deep slumber brought upon by the recuperative shrouds they were swirled in. At the centre of the unit four tall, slim, elegant beings in sky blue robes and masks were gathered around a patient who was face-up on a pallet the material of which, a jelly-like substance, had moulded to the patient's form. It was unlike any other in that it was not one of them, not of their craftworld or even their people; it was human.

"There," Alanna Yunté breathed, her eyes focusing on the little sliver of metal held inbetween the fine fingers of the tweezers she held. It was tiny, so harmless now it was freed from the human child's chest where it had remained so obstinately, infecting him with its taint and nearly killing him.

"Are we done here?" Amrie Sul muttered impatiently. "Scores of our own await treatment, the fragment is out, let us finish the operation and be rid of this child."

"Stay your hand, dearest Amrie," Cerwan Sye murmured. "The fragment is yet warm."

"The wounded call for treatment, Alanna, to deny them would see your credentials soured," Amrie Sul said.

"Amrie Sul, wilful neglect of the patient before the operation has been finalised might lead to a loss of life, one neither I, you, Cerwan Sye or Safaa Tfran can afford," Alanna Yunté replied softly, setting the fingernail-sized piece of metal down on a tray with a clink. "Human or not, it is the duty of the healing houses to provide aid to any and all wounded, failure to do so would violate the vows you took before being sworn in to our ranks."

Alanna Yunté fixed Amrie Sul with a disdainful look. "Losing a patient is a far greater blow than you could imagine, tell me have you ever lost a patient on the table?"

"No, Alanna," Amrie Sul shook his head, lowering his eyes. "But triage…"

"Do not lecture me on triage, Amrie Sul, now pass over the antibiotics."

"I cannot," Amrie Sul removed his mask. "Human filth…"

"Leave the unit at once," Alanna Yunté said without looking up at the stubborn healer. "Cerwan, assume the vacated position."

"Apologies," Cerwan Sye said when Amrie Sul had departed through the nearest portal. "He is a…"

"Antibiotics," Alanna cut in, holding out her hand for the needle.

Cerwan glumly placed the needle in Alanna's gloved hand and fell silent. With quiet restored Alanna took hold of the human's wrist, thin and pale, and travelled up his arm to one of the prominent veins where she inserted the needle and gently pressed it downwards.

"There," she repeated once the antibiotics were safely in his system.

"Finish up?" Safaa Tfran asked dabbing at the little puncture point with a swab after the needle was retracted.

"Finish up, well done to you both, most efficient," Alanna gave a tired smile, "Safaa, Cerwan, gratitude, I would also like for one of you to inform the ambassador of the current developments."

"Whom do you speak of?" Safaa stopped mid-action, Cerwan was likewise confused.

"Why, the human ambassador of course; Izuru Numerial."

Izuru Numerial dreamt.

" _We were a family, you and I. How did it come to break apart and scatter us so far afield?"_

 _Ellorias asked Izuru._

" _I would've given anything to see us together again, Ri, anything to seal that wound up and let us live without fear of our children's safety."_

" _I wasn't afraid, my love, never did I allow it. I went into it with calmness, an understanding and a hope it led to immortality."_

" _There is no immortality, nothing beyond, no great light."_

" _The calm I felt, that is where it is hidden, the key to immortality."_

 _His breath was in her hair, arms around her shoulders, "I still belong to you. I'm still waiting for you on the other side of the dark waters; I'll never stop waiting."_

A hand on Izuru Numerial's shoulder roused her from her slumber. The unfamiliar feeling of contact set off alarms in her head, for an instant she believed herself to still be on Nemesis Tessera and in mortal danger. On instinct her fingers found the worn stub pistol tucked in her belt and tightened around it, drawing, removing the safety and aiming it, all in under a second.

"Peace!" a frightened voice cried. "Peace, my lady!"

A healer shrunk away from the aimed weapon in alarm. Izuru's recollection of recent events was murky.

"Where am I?" she rasped. Her tongue was sticky from lack of moisture, dehydration giving her an aching headache.

"The frigate Grace of The Mother, lady," the healer's lip quivered, she had never seen such quick reflexes. "Your, your hand…"

Lowering the pistol Izuru stared, a look of mild curiosity on her face, at her right hand, several trails of dried blood had run down her arm from the wound in her neck to drip onto the floor beneath her. The crude self-treatment had not been enough to prevent the gash from reopening. Feeling for the old bandage underneath her chin her fingers came away sticky.

"Nemesis…" she remembered.

 _Keladi, Anon_ , _Martti, Larn._

"With your permission?" the healer indicated Izuru's arm.

"The human?" Izuru brushed her off and pulled herself upright.

"The, the operation was successful, my lady, if you will permit me, you require treatment too."

Impatient and irritated Izuru shoved the healer away, "show me."

"Word spreads of contention between the council, since the the great Eldrad Ulthran's unexpected departure the position of chief farseer and commander of the expeditionary force is very much in debate. Turmoil, even moreso with the arrival of the delegation of Biel-Tan, their farseer is…"

"Please! Please…" Izuru wiped her grimy face, recalling the chatter between the pilots of the shuttle she and the human soldiers had flown in on. Right now she couldn't have given a damn about the petty politics and power struggles of the high council so exhausted and hungry she was.

"Apologies, my lady, the words are in everyone's ears, it is impossible to not speak of it."

"Matters of the high council are of no concern of mine," Izuru replied. "How long was I asleep?"

"Forty-seven minutes, my lady," the healer beckoned.

 _Forty-seven minutes, I have been asleep for forty-seven minutes._ Izuru felt the same nagging weariness, dogged thirst and insatiable hunger that plagued her before she had dropped off.

Trailing behind the crisply-attired healer Izuru smelt the clinical and sterile fatigues she wore and thought it disgusting. Had she been aware of the stench she carried with her and her gaunt, haunted visage she would have thought the same about herself.

Pressing a hand on her belly Izuru heard her stomach gurgle, the blood on her skin stuck to the blackened cameleoline robes forcing her to peel it away from her palm little by little. Her feet ached, the muck on her body was intermixed with sweat and blood; her robes clung to her.

"Please, after you," the healer stopped beside an electric blue portal set in the bulkhead, one of many at intervals down the curving corridor.

Acknowledging with a brief nod Izuru stepped through and found herself back in the frigate's ICU. The cool, clean air got up her nostrils and made the hairs tingle enough to make her sneeze which she quickly covered.

"This way please," the healer guided her through the rows of cocoons, most lost in darkness, to the centre of the unit. Unlike everywhere else it was brightly lit and bore a pallet with a small figure lying on it.

"Izuru Numerial?" a female wearing a surgical mask came round the pallet and approached.

"Yes?" Izuru shielded her sore eyes from the light.

"My lady, I am Alanna Yunté, this is my unit," she made the sign of Ulthwé against her chest.

"Greetings," Izuru replied in kind. "The human lives?"

"He does," Alanna bowed her head, "in compliance with your wishes."

"Diagnosis?" Izuru asked, looking down at the human lying half-embedded in the pallet's embrace. Naked from the waist up she saw just how small and thin he was. Below the bandage around his chest his ribs could be clearly seen underneath his white, hairless skin. His face was equally pale. With the dirt cleaned away he looked little more than a child.

 _Poor soul, to happen to one so young,_ Izuru gazed pityingly down at him. Of course he was little more than a child, eighteen was it? What was that it eldar years? It reminded her of Keladi Lethidia. The memory of Keladi lying wounded and beaten tugged at Izuru's heart. She stifled a sob and pressed a clenched fist to her mouth. Another child brutalised by war.

"If you require a moment…" Alanna had noticed but gave no visible reaction to Izuru's concern for a human.

"No, what is your diagnosis?" Izuru asked, cutting off the sudden rush of emotion.

"Shrapnel wound to the chest, we removed it," Alanna displayed the little sliver of metal. "That was all there was."

"Nothing else?"

"Septicaemia, blood poisoning brought on from the unclean fragment. We supplied antibiotics intravenously and cleaned him up."

"And?"

"He had a fever before but it appears to have broken."

"Gratitude, Alanna Yunté," Izuru's gaze passed around the three other healers who had retreated a few paces respectfully, none however would meet her eye.

"Please," Alanna introduced the other three healers. "Cerwan Sye, Safaa Tfran, and the one who brought you here is Aro Sye, Cerwan's sibling."

All three bowed their heads and made the sign of Ulthwé.

"I would say you have performed a great service to Ulthwé today but that would be a lie, the truth is you worked tirelessly to save an enemy alien from near-death and there are no words I can find to express my gratitude towards you all."

"We would have operated all the same," Alanna said. "There is no racial prejudice here, unlike some we do not let battlelines decide who we take into our care. But this will be recorded in the ledger and then will have to be reported to my superior and so forth."

"Everything you and your subordinates did was under orders, my orders. If you are held accountable I will take full responsibility for your actions."

"Gratitude, my lady."

Izuru kept her face blank though deep down she felt a great weight be lifted from her shoulders.

"Will you let us treat you now, with your permission of course."

"With haste, I cannot linger here for long," Izuru relented. It took all of a second to apply self-sealant to her neck.

"This is only a temporary measure, it will wear off in a few hours," Alanna said. "If you would stay…

"I have matters to attend to, it can wait," Izuru said brusquely. "I shall return shortly."

Not wishing to fall to sentimentality Izuru turned and made for the closest portal. The humans needed to know that Arvin James Larn was alive.

The second she had taken the portal, Cerwan Sye let out a great gasp and turned to his sibling. Aro, equally pale, stared at the floor and said to no one in particular, "she looks like death."

* * *

Izuru emerged from the portal and was instantly engulfed in the olfactory numbness caused by the saturation of breath, feet, armpits and crotches.

 _Blessed Asuryan,_ she fought not to gag as the heat washed over her. The warmth in the aft hangar bay, previously evicted of personnel and equipment, had risen alarmingly with the influx of humans. And there was nowhere to sit so the floor was strewn with nervous cigarette butts and empty ration packets. Every available inch was occupied by legs and torsos. The stench from farts, breath and sweaty bodies of so many men suffering from the poor elimination of the tight confines would have been mind-numbing had not the nostrils mercifully deadened themselves to it.

In the brightly-lit hangar the survivors of Nemtess scrubbed the sweat from their dripping eyebrows, picked their wet shirts loose from their armpits, cursed quietly, and waited impatiently.

From her vantage point by the portal Izuru could see the activities of most of the cavernous hangar's occupants. In one place a card game had been started. In another place a human was holding a wooden object at his shoulder and was balancing it on his arm whilst working a thin stick across the four strings; a strange musical instrument. The haunting tune carried above the noise to Izuru's ears. One human was using a knife to whittle down a stick he had carried with him from Nemtess into a sharp point. He sensed the xeno eyes on him and glanced up at Izuru. For a moment he stared, Izuru saw the unbridled hatred in the human's eyes before he returned to his whittling. She understood how easy it was to hate a person or a species and how willingly some went along with it even if they themselves had no personal quarrel; hate spread like an infection.

In other places little knots of humans had formed, and stood or sat talking earnestly to each other with widened, consciously focused eyes while hardly hearing what was said. A few loners meticulously checked and rechecked their service weapons and whatever equipment they had retained on their persons, or else merely sat looking at them. There was nothing else to do but wait. In the busy hangar stuffed to bursting with humans Izuru was searching for a tiny handful that she had encountered on Nemtess; Larn's friends. She did not know their names.

There were so many instances of venomed remarks whispered as Izuru made the long trip across to the opposite portals leading to the frigate's stern, her presence barely tolerated if not reviled. On the first fruitless trip she wondered if she had not done it too hurriedly for surely they must be down there somewhere for there was no other place where they might be; every single human being confined to the aft hangar.

Once more descending into the cloud of smoke and body odour Izuru began to scrutinise the soldiers more closely, scanning each face for any familiarity. On reaching the centrepoint of the hangar she changed direction and made for the screen that separated the vacuum from the ship's interior. Suspicious eyes followed her all the way, a whispered insult here and there. Then finally her patience paid off when, across a group clustered around a shrieking metal object emitting steam, she saw someone she vaguely recognised, the human who had approached her just after they had disembarked, what was his name again, Aimo?

Aimo recognised her too and scrambled to his feet prodding a sizeable human who was sleeping beside him.

"Oi, it's that stickie," he said in a hushed tone. "Cyrano, that stickie's back."

The sleeping human mumbled, " _beda?_ "

"What? No, no, the stickie woman, look!" Aimo jerked his head at Izuru.

"Who's that?" Jacklyn Molke edged back from the towering stickie, his fingers scrabbling for his Accatran carbine, the weapon comically small in his hands, next to a service rifle it looked like a toy.

"Wasn't she from Nemtess?" Leo Wind too had awoken.

"Put it down, boy," Aimo grunted, tapping Molke's knee with his boot heel. "Dunno what you're dealing with there."

"It's heresy to admit a xeno into our company."

Cyrano snorted in derision. "Ah blind faith, a beautiful thing. Look where we are, boy."

"C'mon, kid, the Stickies pulled our arses off Nemtess, without them we'd be in a perf prison camp now," Leo Wind said.

Aimo watched the slim barrel of Molke's carbine quiver.

"S'not right," Molke whimpered. "Fear the xeno, hate the xeno, purge the xeno."

"That what they taught you?" Aimo raised an eyebrow and smirked. Leaning forwards he gently pressed the barrel down. "You don't bother hating the enemy when you're in just as bad a position as he is; y'ain't much different from him."

"Put your weapon on the deck, lad," Leo Wind said gently. "There's been enough violence today."

Meekly, Molke laid his carbine on the deck and went and sat a short distance away.

"Ey, so how's Larn, he gonna be alright? Tell me he's gonna be alright," Aimo looked pleadingly at Izuru.

"What was the matter with him anyway?" Cyrano asked.

"Dunno, ssh let her speak."

Squatting on her haunches Izuru linked her fingers together and stared at the floor beneath her feet, silent. Then, looking up at Aimo she said, "yes."

"Hah," Aimo laughed and thumped Cyrano on the arm. "Bloody good."

"Bravo," Cyrano smiled warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"Wow, didn't think he'd pull through," Leo Wind scratched his head, a look of wonder on his face. "He looked so sickly in the factory like he was about to croak there and then, never would've thought it."

"Shame Martti didn't make it," Aimo added in a hollow voice.

The memory of the young human scarcely any older than Larn was, lying in pieces on the mole, made Izuru's stomach knot. Dropping her gaze, her throat contracted even tighter than before. Clamping her teeth together she said, "it was an infection of the blood caused by shrapnel in his chest."

"Tough little sod," Aimo tutted, "he don't 'alf deserve a medal after what he did on Nemtess."

"Oh what did he do?" Cyrano edged forwards eagerly.

"Was this before I joined up with you chaps?" Leo Wind frowned.

"Yeah, afternoon before."

Izuru, her curiosity piqued, listened intently to Aimo's story.

"We were manning this huge section o' line in Karamaya, just about twenty of us left out of 150 and we got attacked by tanks and bloody hundreds of infantry. Now our one tank got knocked out and Larn, he was the only noncom left alive, he ordered us to pull back and find some relief; so we did. I didn't see but we heard, heard a fifty cal firing in the distance. Anyway we came back later with relief and—well not a single Perf had broken through the line."

"Wait—you're saying he held off the attack by himself?" Leo Wind said in disbelief. "Impossible!"

"Yeah well, like I said didn't actually see it but I guess he must've used the tank's fifty cal and directed the artillery at the same time."

"…That is quite remarkable," Cyrano said slowly.

"Yeah," Aimo met Izuru's eye. "But thing is he was out there on his own for a whole hour, an entire bloody hour."

"Unbelievable," Leo Wind said, stunned.

"And all he got was a scratch on his leg."

"Sheer fantasy."

"Uh-huh, there it is, no-one's gonna believe him because only he was there," Aimo rested his head in his hand and sighed. "Nemtess…"

A torrid of emotions circulated through Izuru: wonderment, shock, sorrow, elation. Who was this human? What had driven him to perform such a suicidal act of bravery?

"He weren't what you was expecting was he?" Aimo said plainly, "caught me off guard too."

"You humans never cease to surprise," Izuru said keeping her featureless mask in place. Rising she turned to leave.

"Can we see him?"

"Impossible."

"Well you tell us the moment he wakes up, else we're gonna be 'aving words."

Glancing over her shoulder at the human, Izuru said coldly, "you will be informed of your comrade's condition." She had not meant to reply so sternly only the throbbing in her head had risen, it soured her mood.

On the journey back up to the portal she saw two more humans though there was only one name she could recollect.

Otto Rinek sat with his sole remaining crewman, Fil Ozymandias. Their two comrades, Gol Gollius and Teren Runz had bought the farm on Nemtess; that was it. There was no sentimentality from the seven-year veterans, no desire for revenge, they were simply carrying on with their jobs.

 _Rinek_ , it was his tank, Bomb, which Larn had stood atop, all the scattered pieces were falling into place. Catching Rinek's eye, Izuru nodded once, receiving a brief nod in return; that was it.

 _Poor souls_ , Izuru's mask struggled to retain its composure as she took one last look at the humans before stepping through the portal.

* * *

Safaa Tfran heard the return of the ranger as she was removing the protective shroud from the human's cocoon. Safaa's ears pricked up on hearing words exchanged between Izuru and Alanna.

"I will not be remaining here for long, I am due to return to the fleet," Izuru said, "I have one request—" she broke off suddenly.

"My lady, what troubles you?" Safaa heard Alanna's concerned voice.

Izuru had noticed the shock of white-blonde hair that had fallen free of Safaa's cap; needless to say it was not a pleasant reminder. For a second she saw the face of a Void Dragon Corsair who, though long dead, still inhabited her memories.

 _Vliss_.

Izuru's hand strayed to the stub pistol in her belt and had it half-drawn before he even realised she was doing it.

"All is well, I shall be departing shortly," she said mechanically, pulling the corner of her robes across to try and conceal the weapon.

"You were about to make a request…" Alanna's eyes flickered down to Izuru's hand, halted mid-action and now balled in a fist.

"Once the human has awoken make it known to his comrades."

"Of course but we do not know who."

"Look for a large man with a white fur cap, such a specimen will not elude you."

"By your word, on your return to the fleet I would ask you seek treatment for your neck lest it turn infectious."

"Yes."

"You are also currently under a great deal of stress, are dehydrated and malnourished not to mention carrying Isha knows what from contact with the humans…"

"Yes," Izuru replied sharply. "The human?"

"He is still under at the moment."

Safaa kept half an ear on the conversation as she oversaw the young human. She was taken aback by the frail figure despite being familiar with human physique and well aware of their short stature, this one however was tiny, scarcely more than a child. Lifting an arm Safaa prepared to inject more antibiotics into his system.

"His fate is in the hands of the gods now."

"Not our gods surely."

"No, Asuryan forbid, they would not like that very much," Alanna cleared her throat.

"When will he awaken?" Izuru said, watching Safaa work.

"A day, a month, a year… he will awaken when he is ready."

"No matter, I must go now," Izuru bid a swift farewell and made for the portal.

Safaa heard the departure of the ranger and glanced back at Alanna.

 _A curious being, not a little unnerving being in her presence._

 _Remarkable her concern for the humans,_ Alanna replied.

"Yes," Safaa said aloud.

Removing the needle she put it aside and was about to replace the shroud when it became apparent that something had changed.

His eyes were open. Sitting bolt upright, the human screamed in Safaa's face, mouth agape, eyes bulging in horror.

Safaa screamed back.

Izuru heard the commotion and tore back through the rows of cocoons to see Larn awake and screaming at the top of his voice in Safaa's face, the latter making just as much noise. The sudden shock of the awakening human caused Alanna to flee in fright.

Tumbling out of the cocoon, Larn flung himself onto Safaa sending them crashing backwards into a pallet holding medical instruments. These went flying, landing on the floor around the struggling pair with loud clatters. Larn stopped screaming incoherently and shouted a name.

"MARTTI!"

His desperately searching hand found a scalpel with a sharp blade. Again he shouted.

"MARTTI!"

Izuru flung herself forwards, her eyes widening in fear as Larn stabbed Safaa in the side of her neck. Blood spurted from the wound spraying both human and eldar. Putting all her weight behind her swing, Izuru's fist connected with Larn's skull but not before he had stabbed Safaa a second time. The force whipped his head around and knocked him out instantly. Shoving him away from Safaa, Izuru pressed both her hands down on the violently spurting wound to try and staunch it.

"Help me!" Izuru cried, feeling the blood leaking from underneath her palms and spreading across the floor.

Aro and Cerwan Sye found Izuru with her hands still clamped down on Safaa's neck, both rushed to fetch the sealant and came back in seconds.

"Watch your hands!"

Cerwan took the sealant to the wound, the foam instantly quelling the blood.

"Is she breathing?" Aro shot a question at Izuru.

"Safaa?" Izuru put an ear down to Safaa's mouth, her eyes had rolled upwards and the colour had drained from her face.

"Get her a mask!"

Taking Safaa's arms and legs they hoisted her up into a vacant cocoon, Izuru was left kneeling in a small pool of blood beside the unconscious human vacantly staring at her bloodied hands.

"Where is Alanna?" Cerwan cried. "Where is she?!"

"He did this!" Aro shrieked. "We should never have operated on him, the human scum!"

Running footsteps filled Izuru's ears. Alanna had returned with two armed warriors clad in black.

"There," she pointed down at the human. "Take him."

" _No one touches him_ ," Izuru said softly.

"He assaulted one of our own!"

"Alanna, Safaa needs treatment now!" Cerwan begged.

"He tried to kill her!"

" _No one touches him_."

"Alanna, please!" Aro looked imploringly at her.

"He will die."

"NO ONE TOUCHES HIM!" Izuru's booming voice rang throughout the ICU cowing everyone into silence. Blood dripped from Izuru's hands as she stood wearing a nightmarish expression, one of raw animal ferocity.

No one disobeyed her.

The sudden violence had sent Izuru into a partial state of shock so much she did not notice the crystallising blood on her palms until Aro pointed it out to her, even after holding them beneath a jet of ice cold water some of it remained clinging to the underside of her fingernails.

 _Why Larn, why?_ Izuru brooded, pondering whether or not Safaa was partly to blame for how Larn had reacted. If she awoke in an unfamiliar environment and came face to face with a strange alien that resembled an old enemy then she would have tried to fight it too. With the blood washed away Izuru sought out the healers all of whom were gathered around the sedated Safaa. The human had also been drugged heavily and moved to a corner out of the way.

"The artery was severed," Alanna said, her voice devoid of emotion. "We clamped it."

Neither Aro nor Cerwan spoke, both their faces were stone-white. Izuru watched Safaa's chest rise and fall slowly before going over to the pallet Larn was fastened down on. He was still unconscious from the blow Izuru had given him. She had not meant to hit him so hard, it had even broken the skin on three of her knuckles. For a second Izuru panicked as she believed it had fractured his skull, being less familiar with human bone structure than hers. The reluctant diagnosis Alanna provided said otherwise to her immense relief, she had added that they had injected Larn with a paralysis drug that prevented him from using his muscles, at least for as long as he was in the ICU. Further risks would not be taken Alanna firmly stated. Any other incident would be met with dire consequences.

* * *

Light broke through the water's surface. Opening my eyes a crack the bright whiteness filtered in. I had been underwater but curiously I did not know how to swim and wondered why I did not drown. Through a white curtain a dark shadow towered over me, its face invisible.

"You were nothing to me, just a nameless speck in my sights, I did not know who you were," a female voice, familiar, said. "I hated you, I wanted to hurt you, prey, for putting me to shame on Platis. But what you did on Grendel proved me wrong, and Nemtess, your bravery, that was nothing short of a miracle. And I have never ever been more wrong about someone in my entire life. When I left you at the hands of the corsairs on Grendel I thought nothing of it so concerned I was for my offspring's safety, it was only after I began to regret."

The shadow paused and tilted its head downwards as if in shame, "I hope that one day you can forgive me."

Unable to form a reply I watched the shadow glide away. Confused I dismissed it as a figment of my imagination. It didn't mean anything, I was surely dead by now. For a long long time I lay paralysed and helpless but realised I was not in fact dead as I had believed. A pale, blond face kept presenting itself before my eyes, every time making me shudder. The sadistic torturer Vliss kept laughing at me from above even after I had stabbed him in the neck twice. He would not leave me alone. Xenos were around me, two females speaking in low, rapid tones, existing only as dim shadows above me. A tremble in my cold muscles and my arm shook, the feeling in my body was returning. The covers were whipped back, bright lights shone in my eyes dazzling me. One by one the restraints around my arms and legs were removed all the while my befuddled senses struggled to comprehend what was going on.

"Get dressed!" one of the xenos said in a harsh voice, tossing my crumpled shirt and jacket at me. "Get dressed!"

I made no reaction to the garments hitting me, all I was interested in was the bandage wrapped around my chest and the ferocious ache in the side of my head.

"Get dressed!"

Previously oblivious to my surroundings it dawned on me that I was under intense scrutiny by at least four very tall, heavily armoured and visibly armed xeno warriors. The fear returned when I eyed the sentinels and saw the striking similarities between them and the corsairs, both clad in black livery. The comparison ended there when one of them shifted and the light shone on the dome of its helmet revealing a pale bone colour. One indicated I was to fall in behind it, with no other options I did as I was told, shuffling unsteadily on my numb feet.

All of the warriors were silent, inhumanly slim underneath their armour and frighteningly tall, each one looming intimidatingly over me. With two behind and two in front I was boxed in and helpless. A spindly arm was flung across me when we reached what appeared to be an accessway, only it was comprised of a shimmering blue material that was not solid or liquid. Touching the gateway with a massive hand the xeno in front of me placed its other hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me forwards. A protest had formed on my lips but the tongue in my mouth was limp and did not operate like it would normally do. I needn't have objected, I was already in another place entirely and the xenos had vanished.

Heat, conspicuously human, rolled over me like a wave and made my eyes smart. Strewn before me in a massive open area were men, both of the Guard and the Navy, taking up every metre of space the floor offered. In the distance, at both ends, were barriers, shields. Questions poured into my head none of which I could find any reasonable answer for as I descended the wide steps to the packed floor. No-one paid me any attention, life went on amongst the card games, brew-ups and the occasional scuffle. The pale, shivering, sickly excuse for a man I was no longer seemed to exist in their world.

A slap on my shoulder nearly set me off, turning to confront my attacker it became plain it was a greeting and not a threat as the one who had done it instead shook my right hand. His mouth moved, silent words coming from around the lit cigarette he had clamped between his lips. Another soldier clapped me on the shoulder and said something. I heard none of it. A few more strangers greeted me in the same manner or curtly acknowledged my presence. Though there was noise I took in none of it, replying to everything with the same bewildered uncomprehending look. Someone I did know clasped my hand in both of his, a weathered face aged by combat smiled grimly: Otto Rinek, beside him Fil Ozymandias. All I could do was nod several times in reply. Dazed I carried on and found men I did know though too few of them were there. Aimo, from another platoon in C-for-Cain Company, wore a giant lop-sided grin, with him sat Cyrano Semirechye, a cavalryman dismounted from his horse. He beamed. A pilot I struggled to remember shook his head in disbelief, opposite him a babyfaced rear-echelon type was staring up at me in awe. But there was one who was missing, one who had been with me all the way since the beginning. Swallowing I opened my mouth and asked of his whereabouts. On hearing the name spoken aloud the warm, friendly faces disappeared and were replaced with guilty, uncomfortable looks.

Again I asked, "where's Martti?"

* * *

Word had spread. No-one spoke, no-one ever did but word got out anyway. Out of the remaining members of Nerian 3rd Division's general headquarters Captain Pace Glowna was the first to dismiss it as myth. His dismissal was supported by Major Lew Lomas and the two colonels, Creel and Zandyke, on Brigadier Emil Theodore Vorbeck's staff. Only the brigadier himself was of a different mind and insisted he seek out the soldier to ascertain the fact from the fiction. He chose Major Lomas to accompany him as well as Captain Glowna, only the latter having any idea what the mysterious soldier looked like.

"Corporal Larn?" Brigadier Vorbeck asked a fancily-attired thug of a man who sported a fierce beard.

"…oh, sir," the giant leapt to his feet and threw a clumsy salute despite his cover lying at his feet.

"Sir, this man is of the Atreides Cavalry Brigade," Major Lomas pointed out.

"Horsemen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Corporal Larn?" Brigadier Vorbeck turned to a handsome, blond-haired chap in a green flight suit.

"Begging your pardon, brigadier, that man is a naval officer."

"Oh, oh yes."

"If I may, sir…" Captain Glowna stepped in. "Corporal Larn was in Colonel Gausser's battalion."

"1 Neria?"

"Yes, sir, him."

Brigadier Vorbeck followed Captain Glowna's outstretched finger, it was pointing to a very young man in crumpled OG combats who was sitting out of the way of the others.

"Him?"

"Yes, sir."

" _Him?_ " Major Lomas sneered, "Captain I can assure this is not in the least bit amusing…"

"Major, I assure you that is the man," Captain Glowna insisted. "I can name him by sight."

"Man, nothing more than a boy," Major Lomas muttered.

At the brigadier's approach the lad's reaction was not to fall over himself like the cavalryman had but simply stare in an oddly vacant way.

"On your feet, soldier," Major Lomas growled.

"As you were, soldier," Brigadier Vorbeck instead chose to kneel. "Are you Corporal Larn?"

The lad blinked and nodded once.

"You answer the brigadier as brigadier, sir, soldier!" Major Lomas snapped.

"Thank you, major, that will be all," Brigadier Vorbeck said.

"Yes, sir," Major Lomas stepped back and departed, shouting at anyone in his way.

Vorbeck continued in a low tone, "Corporal Larn, were you in command of C-for-Cain the day before Karamaya fell?"

Larn nodded.

"Because word has reached me of certain incidents that occurred during the defence of the city, certain fantastical rumours which I would very much like to believe, tell me, corporal, is it true?"

"Yes, sir, all of it," Larn's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Then I will need a full after-action report from you, corporal, as you were the only surviving NCO in C-for-Cain at the time."

"Pardon me, brigadier," Captain Glowna raised a question, "Corporal Larn's company commander."

"Captain Kaukasios, where was he during the fighting?"

Larn wore an odd faraway look with his mouth slightly open; face frozen.

"You're speaking to a brigadier, son," Captain Glowna said gently.

"Kaukasios was a coward, sir," Larn said quietly.

Brigadier Vorbeck sighed and scratched his balding head.

"Then it seems the brigadier and the corporal are of the same mind, I was suspicious of Max Kaukasios's presence and his lust for the Star of Terra. Nothing good came of it."

Larn said nothing, wearing the same hollow, weary stare.

"You have done more than any soldier or sailor could have done in the service of the Emperor, for that I thank you. We will shortly be holding a memorial to remember those that fell on Nemtess."

The brigadier straightened up and fiddled with his beret, half-turning he looked pityingly down at the red-eyed youth.

"We won't start it without you."

No music was played, no hymns were sung, all was silent in the hangar. The memorial was a crude construct supported by a pile of empty ammunition boxes and storage crates. A blackboard with various names and unit designations sat atop it. Pictures of fallen or missing servicemen had been tacked or simply placed around it. Their names were also on the board. In a short time the entire surface was covered in writing, there were even a few flowers taken from emperor-knows-where arranged on or around the memorial.

In the regimental chaplain's absence Brigadier Vorbeck himself addressed the gathered ranks of men from a makeshift altar draped in a rain-cape. When he spoke it was without emotion, he was not a good speaker and disliked being before large crowds but he felt it his duty to address his men, _his men_ , to honour both their sacrifices and those that fell in the heat of battle. That there were no bodies to send home to families was a bitter knife to the gut, and everybody had lost somebody down there, even Brigadier Vorbeck himself. Taking off his beret he waited for the rustle and clatter of soft and hard covers being removed to die away before resuming. To finish he chose a fragment of an ancient scripture different from the usual poetry about sacred duty to the divine Emperor and devoid of any enmity towards xenos or heretics. Vorbeck knew it was not a whole piece just a fragment of what it had been, and like with the fallen it would be forgotten. Only he and those that lived would remember them.

"They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun in the morning, we will remember them."

Vorbeck bowed his head, across the crowd men closed their eyes, some wept, some made the sign of the aquila; many mourned in silence.

Aimo Garst, standing in the front row alongside Larn glanced at him briefly. In that second he swore the lad was crying, yet no tears fell.


	3. Chapter 2

Kora screamed, but she had no mouth, so how could she scream?

"Where am I?" Her voice, a bodiless entity, floated in a dark void.

"Alive," a clipped, rasping mechanical voice answered making her jump.

"My body! I have no body yet I still exist, what sorcery…?" Realising how hysterical she sounded to the alien being Kora caught herself.

"Answer my questions, Shesmet."

"Please, please let me go, I do not know what—"

"—YOU ANSWER MY QUESTIONS," the being roared.

The episode passed so quickly Kora could not draw breath to scream, she merely stared frozen, petrified.

The being's voice was soothing when it continued. "Please, Shesmet, to whom do you answer to?"

"A-An inquisitor, a high ranking acolyte of the Inquisition."

"Why did you trespass in my construct?"

"I sought a means of salvation."

"From him?"

Kora paused, trembling with fear, "…he's a monster."

"Like the rest of your kind then."

"P-please…"

"Ask."

Kora gathered her wits then said, "you, you said alive, I asked where I was not how I was, I seek a straight answer from you."

"You are in my care now, Shesmet."

"That is not my name!"

"Neither is Kora, you are a being without identity, invisible, anonymous but desperately seeking a name. I can give you a name."

"Please, whoever you are, first tell me yours then I will decide whether or not I am worthy of the name."

"This being has the ancient honour of the title The Infinite, for I am the beginning, I am the end, I am the alpha, and I am the omega."

Kora felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end on hearing those words spoken. The Infinite's chilling voice crept down her spine like drips of icy water.

"But, titles aside, you may call me Trazyn if you if may call you Shesmet."

"Trazyn," Kora gasped. "I do not believe—"

"That you are worthy? None are."

"Why was I chosen?"

"You chose yourself."

"I beg—"

"THE WORDS OF A SLAVE!" Trazyn's voice rang in Kora's ears.

"A SLAVE KNEELS BEFORE ME LIKE IT KNELT BEFORE THE INQUISITOR!"

"Grant me revenge!" Kora shouted back hot-headedly, "revenge is what I seek so grant me it, and maybe I will help you!"

"AN AGREEMENT, AN AGREEMENT HAS BEEN REACHED!"

Kora had further words on her tongue when she realised that Trazyn was laughing.

"HOW THE MIGHTY HAVE SUNK LOW IF THEY MUST BROKER PETTY DEALS WITH LITTLE BEINGS OF NO CONSEQUENCE!"

"You heard my words. I will do your bidding if you help me take down Osvat Radu Zeleska."

"SO SPEAK FOR ME, SHESMET, SPEAK FOR ME AND I WILL STAND FOR YOU!"

"And now," Trazyn's voice lowered almost to a whisper. "Let the illusion fall, let your eyes see clearly."

A great chillness swept over Kora. She lay curled up on an icy surface, black and smooth as a mirror, numbing her naked body. Shivering in the cold Kora lifted her head up and saw she was not alone.

A huge metallic being ringed with pale green light gazed down on her from the air, skeletal in appearance with an elongated skull for a face and a thick gold breastplate shaped like a human ribcage. Fastened underneath its broad shoulder plates was a scaled, shimmering golden cloak that fell past its armoured feet which hung several metres from the floor. Even at a distance the mechanical skeleton's size was considerable, well over nine feet tall. The sight of the stretched skull and the sharp teeth made Kora cower in fright, burying her face in the crook of her elbow.

"Look upon me, Shesmet," the mechanical man said. "I am Trazyn."

Warily Kora lifted her head up.

"That is it, good."

"What are you?" she asked shakily, trying not to look into its eyes.

"As I said," Trazyn's sharply angled brows, before seemingly immobile, softened and his eyes, a bright, piercing emerald, dimmed. "I am the infinite, the collector, the meddler, the historian, and the preserver, but you may call me Trazyn."

"Where am I?" The hairs on Kora's body stood on end as she tore her eyes from Trazyn and took in her surroundings. Gone were the forests and grassy fields of Cadia, replaced by smooth, ebony walls that glowed green from thin lines that ran in peculiar patterns up, down, and in all directions. These sole sources of light, bright up close, were set far back in fibre-thin crevices so narrow that only the tiniest traces seeped through into the wide chamber. So wide was it that the far corners, many hundreds of feet into darkness, were lost with only the eerie strips of light giving any clue as to their whereabouts.

"In the House of Trazyn," Trazyn replied, unfastening his scaled cape from his shoulders and descending towards Kora. The sudden echoing noises made her jump in apprehension and try to crawl away from Trazyn.

"Allow me to lend you my garment," Trazyn said, gently draping his cape over Kora. "Do not be afraid, it is quite light."

"This is your house?" Kora asked, pulling the rustling material tight around her shoulders. So broad was Trazyn's cape it was like she had donned a collapsed tent.

"Tis a humble abode, modest if you will," Trazyn glided around to face Kora and lowered himself far enough that his outstretched hand was level with her breast. His feet still did not touch the floor.

Gingerly Kora's right hand left the folds of the cape and touched his forefinger, her own fingers were met with the same unwelcoming cold her body had received from the floor, they also could not even wrap around the appendage entirely, so wide it was.

"That is it, good, find your feet again, Shesmet," Trazyn said, helping Kora upright.

"It's freezing in here," Kora muttered as she put her weight on her feet. The temperature was low enough that her breath came out visible.

"Come," Trazyn moved away leading Kora by the hand. In the distance a wide doorway led out of the chamber, it was guarded by two statues holding staffs mounted atop stone plinths. Similar in appearance to Trazyn the two guardians nevertheless stirred up a feeling of uneasiness. Watching them closely Kora caught her breath when both pairs of eyes, before fixed straight ahead, now followed her. The revelation that the inanimate objects were fully aware of her was not a pleasant one.

"Guardians, they will not come unless called," Trazyn said.

"Are they aware?"

"Fully, but they will not come unless called."

Wishing to forget the silent guardians, Kora fell silent and let Trazyn lead her through a maze of dark corridors. Lit only by the tiny shafts of green light originating from deep inside the stone, every shadow seemed to conceal an unseen, frightening entity. Kora had never seen any architecture quite like this before, it was utterly alien.

"Please, Trazyn, what manner of being are you?" Kora asked, craning her neck to look upwards at him. "The armour you wear, is it armour?"

"Armour, my skin, my curse…" Trazyn replied. "In time all of your questions will be answered, but for now…"

Out of the wall slid a compartment, a shelf long enough to accommodate a human.

"Rest."

Kora hesitated, unsure of what Trazyn's intentions were.

"Be without fear, rest, for tonight no being will touch you."

"Your cape," Kora tried to shrug the scaled material from her shoulders.

"Wear it I would not see a guest dishonoured in my house, now lie back. Rest now, Shesmet."

The warm glow in the mechanical being's eyes was the last thing Kora saw before the shelf retracted into the wall. Lying in the darkness she realised for the first time in so long she was alone, free of the inquisitor's domination.

 _Goodbye, Kora_ , she thought, _let yourself be reborn._

Closing her eyes Shesmet slept peacefully.

* * *

 **Eldar Transport _Nereid_ , Hydra Cordatus System**

"Madam Ambassador, we are entering the Hydra Cordatus System, the fleet is within hailing range."

Izuru Numerial glanced up at the crewman and nodded curtly, "request docking permission on the Arabulucu."

"Yes, my lady."

Once the crewman had departed Izuru dropped her curt demeanour, sighed and slumped against the bulkhead. Sitting alone in the empty troop bay Izuru felt her buttocks aching from the hard bucket seat and her spine being pressed on. All she desired was to cleanse herself and find Keladi but, knowing the council, she would not be permitted to stand easy until they had thoroughly debriefed her and otherwise pumped her for every last scrap of information on the situation regarding the thousands of displaced human soldiers.

Brushing her forehead Izuru felt the warmth underneath her fingertips brought on from dehydration and Asuryan-knows what human germs she carried. The blood on her hands and body had long dried by now leaving a rough, crusty surface on her skin that irritated her whenever she moved. Her hair, dirty and greasy, fell past her ears in clumps over her eyes, too short it was to fully tie back but too long to tuck away. Reaching into the collar of her robes Izuru felt for the Spirit Stone that hung from around her neck and examined it, unlike the rest of her it was undamaged but its shine had dulled; no longer the brightest star of the rangers.

The events aboard the Grace, Larn's episode, further unsettled her stomach making it churn, gurgling in its empty state. The headache that had come on in the aftermath only made her feel worse. The human's violent reawakening had angered her but, against her eldar side, she had developed a genuine fondness for the little human, the weight on her heart alleviated on hearing he had rejoined his own people and was back where he belonged. She was happy he had a place amongst them and had garnered some respect for his heroism, he deserved it.

Turning the stone around in her hands Izuru tucked it away and closed her eyes. In a very short period of time she would stand before the council only this time absent her mentor. It pained her that one of her only supporters and friends had disappeared without a trace, not even leaving a message or explaining the reason for his absence. Eldrad Ulthran's departure would no doubt cast the upper echelons of the council into turmoil as power-plays began. The dirty politicking that would follow Izuru wanted nothing to do with; she was a warrior, not a politician.

Keladi, the poor girl introduced to the suffering of war too young, and because of Izuru she had been shot, captured, beaten and scarred. Just how deep those scars ran Izuru could not know. What she did know was that even long after the wounds had healed, inside the spirit would remain forever scarred. After all she still carried the marks from Grendel, her side where the knife had plunged, her eye, the pupil permanently dilated; she would die with them. And another thing, the uncontrollable rage against the inquisitorial acolyte and his lackeys, now that she thought back on it, was of another person entirely. Even after calling on only a fraction of her psyker power she still struggled not to lose control and give in to the Warp. The feeling of the human's neck breaking, ecstasy then, was genuinely disturbing to her now. She chewed through all of her fingernails, afraid of the madness that arose when she gave into emotion.

It was a composed, stern figure that descended the shuttle's lowered ramp to the Arabulucu's hangar bay, unperturbed by the muzzles of two dozen lasblasters pointed at her. Izuru never turned a hair at the cold reception, nor did she leave her hood up as she usually did, she wanted her weary face, neither human nor eldar to be seen by all. But most of all Izuru did not show fear, rather cold disdain and nonchalance. If they wanted to find fear in her eyes they would be solely disappointed.

"Raise your weapons," a gatemaster, his yellow-crested helmet rising above all of the fleet armsmen, strode through their midst. At his command they parted seamlessly, twelve on either side, forming a guard of honour; their weapons held aloft.

"The High Council's compliments," the gatemaster said, making the sign of Ulthwé.

Izuru replied, her right hand forming the eye.

"Your presence is long overdue, lady ambassador," he said severely and with a little too great a stress on lady ambassador, pronouncing it like it was a dirty word.

"Does the council wish to speak with me?" Izuru asked, indicating the gatemaster should walk with her.

"They expect a full report from you and a reason for your lack of punctuality."

"Tell me…" Izuru was eager to change the subject. "I did not expect such a frosty reception on my return to the fleet, is it customary for agents of the council to be greeted with aimed weapons?"

"One that has had close dealings with the prey, yes," the gatemaster glanced sidelong at her. "Proper procedure must be followed, now agent of the council or not I must insist you be put through the decontamination process before your debriefing."

"Very well," Izuru replied, seeing no proper reason for argument.

"The process will take up very little of your precious time I assure you."

Then, as if sensing her unvoiced question, the gatemaster added, "and no the process does not hurt; much."

Forced to stand naked in the centre of a deathly cold decontamination chamber, Izuru could only stand still and wait out the vicious blasts of air and rough scrubbers that left her body raw and, in some places, bleeding. There was no comfort, no cleansing warmth, she left the chamber just as dirty as she had gone in.

"Yours?" a machinesinger in the stone white garb of the chemical and biological caste, indicated the human handgun resting on the clean, sterile surface that had been set aside from Izuru's folded robes.

"Mine."

Hearing the disgruntled mutterings of the crew that had overseen her decontamination: words such as human, riddled, and germs, Izuru's ears picked up, not that she cared anymore, her 'status' by now was widely-known. The more beings that ostracized her for heritage the tighter she would draw it around herself, it was her armour, her shield; no-one could hurt her.

Picking up the automatic, Izuru saw the traces of human fingerprints on it and felt the cold weight of the slugs pressed in tightly. She had wanted to leave it in the keeping of one of Larn's friends before departing but the violence had made her reconsider.

 _Our destinies are linked, human_. _We will meet again at another time, in another place._

Tucking the pistol away in her belt, Izuru's thoughts turned to the council and Keladi. Should she further brush off the council and disregard the warning from the gatemaster to find the young banshee or should she place her duty above her friend.

 _Jain Zar forgive me_.

Jain Zar was the Phoenix Lord and founder of the Howling Banshees Aspect Warriors, Izuru hoped she would understand that duty should be put before everything else. Besides, Keladi could wait.

* * *

The announcer for newcomers promptly stumbled over his words when the latest and last member appeared from one of the eighteen portals in the antechamber adjacent to the council chamber.

"Izuru Numerial, Ambassador to the Human race," the announcer repeated to make himself heard over the noise of conversation raging. Having a capacity for seven hundred, the chamber was less than half full, the occupants were making enough noise however to make up for the absences. On the second announcement the conversation ceased, all eyes turned in the direction of the latecomer.

"The triumphant return," the voice of Elscarn Caerys boomed across the cavernous space quelling any other mutterings. The farseer, as with the absent chief farseer, was many thousands of years old and no stranger to war. Sitting beside and a step below Eldrad Ulthran's vacant place, the tall, dark, regal eldar surveyed the scruffy ranger with a cool, veteran's gaze.

"The hour grows late, Izuru Numerial, and our summons have long since passed, long enough to grow cold. Did our messenger not reach you?"

"The messenger delivered your summons as ordered, Caerwé," Izuru replied steadily, mounting the dais in the centre of the chamber and falling under the gaze of the seated.

"Then it is no fault of the messenger rather the fault of the summoned, perhaps we were not specific in our wording? Such a valued protégé of the chief farseer would not, could not, be so foolish as to disregard an order from the high council themselves."

Elscarn Caerys turned to a confederate sitting beside her, Taldeer. "Talwé, a council of fools, of jesters we are, else why would the ranger disregard us so boldly?"

Taldeer, pale, raven-haired with heavily-arched eyebrows spoke, "The Harlequin, unless I am mistaken. I pity the ranger, the choices she made…"

Already they were talking like Izuru was not even present. Underneath her unemotional mask she bristled.

"Will the high council not be privy to the ambassador's side of the story? Will you make small talk amongst yourselves whilst our greatest enemy draws ever further away?"

"I believe there is a simple truth to this matter, you disobeyed a direct command from the high council therefore discipline must be meted out."

"My mission was incomplete, many more could have been saved had our ships stayed, given air cover, provided fire from orbit. Instead you refused to provide military assistance—"

"The chief farseer's order," Elscarn Caerys cut in sharply. "Or had you forgotten, strayed from your mind perhaps?"

"Had he seen the situation on the ground he would have provided all possible aid regardless of our standing with the humans," Izuru's hands, hidden in her sleeves, tightened into fists.

"Commendable, commendable," Elscarn Caerys sneered. "The fact of the matter is, Eldrad Ulthran is no longer here, he has vanished with nary a reason, and his orders—"

"—still stand," Izuru snapped, she knew it to be true, only with the inauguration of a new farseer, a blood relative, would the validity of the orders be taken into question.

Elscarn Caerys paused at the interruption, fixing Izuru with a dark stare. It was a previously silent autarch that spoke next, without leave to do so.

"An unquenchable fire burns bright inside you, young one," Raesern Idranel, old, even for the council, said. "You have the spirit of youth but the tongue of a juvenile maiden and the manners of one of the Druchii."

Bowing her head, Izuru turned to the old seer, "apologies, Idrawé, I step out of line."

"The question is…" Elscarn Caerys began, taking Izuru's attention again. "The thousands of prey crammed aboard our vessels, the mere thought of the filth, their unclean bodies polluting them… is abhorrent, they must be disposed of as quickly as possible."

Izuru, silent in anticipation, waited.

"Once the expeditionary fleet has passed through the Tempest of Sorrow the prey will be delivered to the nearest inhabitable world, we will then hunt down the Blackstone Fortress and drive it back whence it came; there will be no involvement with the prey's war."

They were making a terrible mistake. Not approaching the humans under a flag of truce would only hurt both races in the coming engagements. Izuru shuddered as she imagined the terrible casualties either side would sustain, while already high, their magnitude would be increased one hundredfold all because of a few beings' refusal to change their ways. Such dogmatic beliefs and blind prejudices were so typical of Izuru's people, and how she hated them for it.

"Does your chief farseer's word mean nothing now?" Izuru said quietly, disappointed and upset at their decision.

"It is the high council's word, not the chief farseer's, Izuru Numerial," Elscarn Caerys replied in a similar hushed tone. Then, dismissive she added, "You are no longer required."

" _What?_ " Izuru breathed.

"You are relieved of all duties to the high council, for your services, we thank you, but now it is time to leave."

"Leave…" Izuru was speechless.

"Return home to the craftworld and your children for it is wrong that a mother should be separated from her offspring for such a long period."

Izuru could not believe what she was hearing. The council was shunting her aside and sending her home! To them she was nothing more than an embarrassment, a wasted endeavour tied to Eldrad Ulthran's legacy.

 _Why did you desert us at such an hour?_ Izuru lamented, her heart filled with shame and burning with anger. Protesting would yield nothing they were too firmly set in their beliefs, certainly Elscarn Caerys and Raesern Idranel, being older, more dignified members of the old guard would be unsympathetic but Taldeer, a younger, more open seer, surely she would offer support. But no, the raven-haired eldar appeared to be in Elscarn Caerys's pocket and eating out of her hand, she would not speak unless spoken to. Izuru no longer had any friends.

Making the sign of Ulthwé, Izuru backed down from the dais, turned and swept out of the chamber, heading for a portal, one that would take her far away from the council and their dunderheaded decisions. Before she had even left the main chamber the conversations had resumed, like she had not even been there.

Materialising many floors below the upper chambers, Izuru found herself amongst the fleet's rank and file, aspect warriors in all manner of livery. To her chagrin there was not a single ranger, a comrade she could confide in. Whether hidden behind mask lenses or not eyes passed through her, some pairs lingered for a beat before losing interest, after all what was she to them; nothing.

Resolving to find Keladi before taking the Arabulucu's Webway portal home, Izuru fixed her eyes on the floor beneath her feet and put her head down; there was no more business to settle.

"My farseer would have words," a stranger's voice came from the crowd.

Believing it to be for another, Izuru paid no heed.

"Izuru Numerial, my farseer would have words with you," an auburn-haired male eldar wearing stark white armour and a red sash fastened around his waist appeared in front of her. His helmet was tucked underneath his arm and he looked surprisingly open and friendly, not something Izuru was familiar with. His attire was not of the Craftworld Ulthwé, nor strangely was it of Craftworld Alaitoc.

"And what would your farseer want with a ranger?" Izuru said coldly.

"To parley, please," the stranger indicated they should move clear of the crowd. Keeping her guard up and her hand close to her pistol, Izuru followed him to a less busy corner out of earshot.

"Speak quickly stranger. I am loathe to tarry in this place."

"Please," the stranger had seen the butt of the weapon hidden in Izuru's robes. Raising his hands he backed away a pace. "I am unarmed, you can see for yourself, I am also not threatening you or compelling you to remain here."

"Speak," Izuru's hand did not leave the pistol.

"Avele Swifteye of the Craftworld Biel-Tan," Avele Swifteye made an unfamiliar sign with his right hand and held it to his chestplate.

"You are with the delegation of Biel-Tan?" Izuru cocked her head to one side.

"I am," he smiled, "I have the honour of assisting the farseer, bless her name."

"Why has Biel-Tan sent you?"

"My farseer, Macha, brings dark tidings; the vile hordes of Chaos have assaulted our home and caught us unawares. It is Macha's will that we send a call out far and wide to any brothers and sisters for aid."

"Well I am afraid the council will not spare any war assets, the fleet pursues a Blackstone Fortress into human-controlled space. But how does this concern me, Avele Swifteye?"

"Please, I am a messenger, only my farseer knows the reason for calling to you."

"Go on…"

"A moment of your time is all she asks."

"Concerning the matter of the humans?"

"Perhaps, I am uncertain."

"Biel-Tan is far and wide the most militant of all Craftworlds and has little tolerance for outsiders."

"Our policies are somewhat less flexible than those of other Craftworlds, yes."

"Your policy for war remains unchanged."

"Yes."

"You would see the humans exterminated?"

"On the contrary, mercy would be the wiser choice."

"I find it strange such words coming from such a mouth."

"Avele Swifteye has dealt with the human race before. Forty thousand colonists owe me their lives after an incident on one of our maiden worlds, Yrthal, where the humans had settled, ignorant of the world's significance. We, my warriors and I, burned the settlements to the ground and took the humans captive. A less merciful commander would have delivered every man, woman and babe to the Warp with nary a second thought. I chose mercy and let them go free; to this day I am still unsure of whether I made the wrong decision."

Unimpressed, Izuru said, "a heartwarming tale, if there was a speck of truth to it."

"Please, we are beings of honour, lady, lies do not become us," Avele Swifteye's eyes flashed, calling him a liar had touched a nerve it seemed.

"You are an advocate of mercy, but what of your farseer, where does she stand?"

"Give her a moment and a little light may be shed."

Izuru thought for a moment, "then moment is all she will have."

Following in the wake of the warrior of Biel-Tan, Izuru blinked into a set of exquisitely furnished chambers not far from the great bridge where the battleship was helmed, having never been in this part of the Arabulucu before Izuru was taken aback by the lavish surroundings, a striking difference from the heavily-militarised and utilitarian lower decks

 _Blessed Asuryan,_ Izuru noticed the exotic piles of fruit and fresh vegetables, meats and beverages arranged artistically on a banqueting table, sitting ready to be sampled. The deep purple bulkheads were lit with glowing murals that spiralled this way and that, providing illumination overhead along with the familiar warm spheres of light.

"Wait here one moment," Avele Swifteye nodded politely and headed for a set of adjoining rooms, in the furthest one away he turned to address someone who was out of sight. Izuru watched him carefully and tried to pick up any words spoken.

He returned presently and beckoned Izuru to come through, "the farseer will see you now and…"

"Yes?" Izuru stopped and listened as Avele Swifteye lowered his voice.

"T'would be wise to accept invitation, and do not be put off by what you see in there."

Izuru glowered at him suspiciously and pushed past. The meaning behind Avele Swifteye's words became clearer when she entered the side-chamber, a bathhouse that was no less rich than the rest of the suite. Curving pillars rose upwards into clouds that obscured the ceiling, a sweet aroma of lilac hung in the air, the warmth, otherwise pleasant, felt oppressive. Sitting submerged up to her shoulders was a red-haired eldar with blue eyes so pale they were almost white. A haughty look that was half smirk, half disdain tarnished her otherwise flawless features, souring her appearance. If she was going by looks alone, Izuru disliked her immediately. Waiting in attendance around the pool were four other females around Keladi's age all wearing pale white shifts that were almost sheer. Each had their heads bowed with lowered eyes. Something was off about the contents of the bath, its opacity and unnatural paleness surprised Izuru at first then she realised it was milk.

"What's this, a half-breed ranger?" the redhead, Macha, spread her arms wide and rested them on the stone behind her. "Surely this is not the ambassador to the human race?"

"Izuru Numerial, ranger," Izuru replied, irritated at the oozing condescension in Macha's voice.

"A ranger first and foremost then."

"I am a warrior, no politician."

"Of course, why else would this dirt-ridden speck of a being glide onto my ship? No ambassador to any race would present themselves in such a filthy manner," Macha's lip curled. "Disrobe, you must be weary from battle, come join me."

Izuru flat-out refused to budge and very casually drew back the corner of her robes so the butt of the stub pistol was in view, hoping Macha got the message.

"You would refuse invitation from a farseer, ranger?" Macha's eye narrowed. "I would flay your body end from end and feed it to She Who Thirsts."

"I agreed to this meeting and hoped for a civil outcome, I did not come here to be insulted…" Izuru rested her hand on the pistol.

"A harmless toy," Macha tilted her head back and stared at Izuru down her nose. "For there is no greater weapon than the mind, your _human_ tool against my power… I would flay you."

"Perhaps, what is it you require, farseer?"

"Are you all business, ranger?"

"We are at war, farseer, and I did not come to play word games with one that bathes in _milk._ "

"A pity," Macha smiled sadly. "A pity my father was not here when I arrived. Tell me, ranger, where is Eldrad Ulthran?"

"He is…?" Izuru fumbled her words, shocked at what she heard.

"Oh!" Macha laughed, throwing back her head. "You poor thing, did he not tell you? Were you the daughter he never had, did he bestow _you_ with that honour while knowing full well of my existence?"

A muscle went in Izuru's jaw, she did not know what to say, no clever retort came to mind.

"And now with my father's departure I will now step in and take his seat, command of Ulthwé's fleet will be transferred to my ship; we shall make for Biel-Tan with all haste."

Izuru silent for a moment then spoke in a quietly deadly voice, "your father's wish was for our race to ally with the humans just as we did in the Gothic War. Our combined might was the deciding factor, we won, but only with each other's help. Something dark, something terrible has its sights set on Cadia, a Blackstone Fortress; do you know what lies within? It is our doom."

"The defence of our home takes priority over any affairs with the prey, ranger. Were it your home, Alaitoc, under siege would you stand by it, or would you slink off and hide, confident that there will always be others to fight your battles?"

"There are hundreds of Craftworlds in the galaxy, these will all burn if the Blackstone and its escort breach the Cadian Gate, right now they are in a corridor inbetween the Eye of Terror and Cadia, the latter is all that stands between them and open space. The Imperial Guard and Navy will not be able to withstand a concentrated assault by Chaos, the numbers are too skewed."

"Death before the eldar fight alongside the humans, they are, the majority of them, weak-minded, easily corrupted fools blinded by piety and hatred."

"It will be death," Izuru nodded, "It will be death, for you, for everyone."

"If I do not have your favour will you be supporting one of the council? Do you wish that wizened Raesern Idranel or the decrepit Elscarn Caerys become the chief farseer? They will not be so lenient as I will, for I am kind and it is obvious my father cared for you, ranger."

Rising to her full height, Macha moved towards Izuru. "Support my bid for chief farseer and you shall have my favour, everything my father promised shall be yours, you need only bow and swear allegiance." Extending a slender arm she waited.

"Unfortunate, your father promised me exactly what you desire, farseer," Izuru replied levelly, not in the smallest bit perturbed by the others' nakedness.

Macha lowered her dripping arm and stepped back, "then we are at an impasse, I will not help you unless you help me."

"Give me a fleet, and I shall hunt down the Blackstone and crush what lies within."

"In exchange for your support in the vote."

"Agreed."

Macha returned to the other end of the bath and slipped back in up to her neck. "Avele Swifteye, my captain, will lend you his corsair fleet. You will intercept the Blackstone Fortress en-route to Cadia and wipe it out of existence."

"The human soldiers, many are aboard this vessel and others in the fleet."

"Those aboard the Arabulucu shall be transferred to other ships. They will then accompany the corsairs. That will be the end of it."

"Agreed, if business is concluded…"

Macha smiled, "you are fond of them, are you not? I can see it in your eyes, half-breed. On Biel-Tan such an abomination would be executed."

"This is not Biel-Tan."

"No, are you a virgin? I am."

Caught off guard by such a direct question, Izuru said, "No, I have two young children."

"Male, female?"

"Both male."

"Two beautiful young warriors, you would prefer them to remain beautiful, to grow up and live happy lives free of persecution?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"If that is all…"

Macha's smirk widened, "did you know my heart was once taken by a human? A Space Marine, Gabriel Angelos, he was officer commanding of the Blood Ravens 3 Company. There has never been another like him, our destinies our intertwined, I will kill him on our next encounter via a shot straight from my heart to his."

"Tis folly to give one's heart to an Astartes, they are heartless, fanatical beings, more machine than men, their only love is for the Imperium and their God-Emperor."

"Hmm," Macha laughed softly, "and what of _your_ human, will you kill him too?"

"There is no human," Izuru's face darkened.

"These ears hear whispers, sometimes words. We are all psykers after all; no-one's thoughts are their own."

"Do not confuse sympathy with affection, I have no love for the prey, they are a means to an end, like with the rest of their kind they will die out and we will continue for we are the rightful rulers of the galaxy."

" _Denial_ ," Macha whispered too low for Izuru to hear. Then, louder she said, "I eagerly await your presence in the upper council chamber tonight. Have no fear Izuru, everything will be alright."

The suspicion had never left Izuru's eyes throughout the discussion, making the sign of Ulthwé she turned and left.

Macha continued to smile long after the half-breed had departed. Lying back and closing her eyes she dismissed three of her handmaids and ordered the last to enter the bath with her.

"What news?" Avele Swifteye fell in beside Izuru who paid him no attention.

"You did not say you commanded corsairs," she snapped.

"Does that perturb you, ranger?"

"I have had encounters with the corsairs in the past, a certain group caused me a fair deal of distress, that is all I will say."

"So the farseer has granted you my fleet, what is our heading?"

"Cadia."

"For what purpose?"

"I will brief you in full later, commander."

"My corsairs refer to me as captain."

"Very well, captain, you will be briefed in due course," Izuru shot the corsair a look as she stepped up to the portal. "I will find you when the time is right. Do not attempt to find me."

"Yes, lady," Avele Swifteye bowed his head and waited for the ranger's departure.

* * *

Weary from the tense exchange Izuru hurried down from the upper decks passing through portal after portal, all the time checking her surroundings. It may have been paranoia on her part but the arrogance and aloofness of the foreign farseer had rubbed her the wrong way, she had been reminded of the late Saarania, the self-proclaimed 'princess' of the Void Dragons. So much of her she now saw in Macha, like with the blond-haired healer similar in appearance to Vliss, it set her teeth on edge. If Saarania and her cohorts had somehow come back to haunt Izuru it would ruin her, already her spark was beginning to fade away from the strain she had taken on her shoulders. She needed to stop and rest, however Keladi needed to be found.

The healing houses were in a state on Izuru's arrival, the cocoons filled with patients, casualties from the battle above Nemtess, many denied a place to lie were being forced to stand. Even with the battleship's spacious, fully-manned and well-supplied facilities the healers were still being perilously overworked. Izuru could see the blank, fatigued expressions on them as they hurried from patient to patient administering treatment where it was needed, they were like machines, beings shut off from their emotions and existing only as shells with one motive; to work. One healer existed by himself in his own bubble, he was attempting to clean recently crystallised blood from a pallet but it was only spreading further and further with every swab, the redness clinging relentlessly to everything; his hands and the surface.

Izuru clasped a healer by the shoulder, "Keladi Lethidia?"

The healer ignored her and went away.

"Keladi Lethidia?"

A blank stare from another healer.

"Keladi Lethidia of the Howling Banshees?"

The healer backed away from her in alarm, muttered something and half-ran away.

"A red-haired girl, white armour, a bandaged eye."

No-one had said a word they were in another world to hers. The quick back and forth between the healers and the moans and crying from the wounded came from far below the deck. Izuru did not exist to them. She felt like crying, breaking down in front of everyone in frustration.

The next healer she came across incited a different reaction, one of impotent fury. Charging at him, Izuru flung the white-faced healer against the nearby bulkhead and pressed a palm to his throat.

"Where did you find this?" she tugged the blue scarf that was visible underneath the white robes he wore.

Trembling so hard he could not speak, the healer's legs promptly buckled forcing Izuru to hold him upright.

" _This_ is not yours!" Izuru spat in his face and tore the scarf from around his neck. "Tell me where you found this!"

"B-banshee," the healer whimpered, his eyes squeezed shut. A dark stain appeared around his crotch and rapidly spread.

"Ranger—"

A stern voice behind Izuru made her whip out the pistol, turn halfway and aim it at a gaggle of healers that had appeared behind her. Their outrage very quickly turned to fear when they saw her face and the wild look on it.

"This one is a thief he stole this scarf from a dear friend of mine, did you not?" Izuru turned back to the thief, wretched and quite a wreck by now.

"She was too hot," he gurgled, his face turning red. "I didn't know what to do with it."

"Let him go, ranger. I am afraid I must ask you to leave this house."

"Tell me first… either one of you."

"Leave now, or else."

There was a tiny click of a safety catch and Izuru's cold, hard voice. "Take your place amongst the wounded or I will send you there myself." Lowering the pistol she aimed it at the closest healer's knee. All were extremely eager to cooperate after that, it took all of a few minutes to locate the house the banshees were in and for Izuru to make her way there.

"Keladi?" Izuru called softly, there were precious few banshees inside the cocoons and none had the youth's red hair. The house was quieter than the others and much less busy, the healers lacking the stress and exhaustion of their over-worked colleagues down in the busier houses.

"Keladi?" Again Izuru chanced the girl might hear her and reply, but no sound came from inside the cocoons.

"Healer," Izuru spotted a healer in dark attire that was facing her and standing strangely still. "I seek a…"

Izuru's heart froze, the 'healer' moved as she moved with her mouth moving as hers did.

"Who are you?" she raised a hand and tried to reach out to a being whose face was coated in dirt, blood and sported numerous cuts and grazes as well as a purple mark below its right eye, its pupil strikingly wide unlike the other.

"No. No," Izuru felt her palm hit the surface of the mirror where the other being's palm was. "You cannot be me, you cannot." The hideous creature's mouth copied hers, underneath the grime its face cracked up, shining tears left tracks down the cheeks.

Balling her fist, Izuru screamed in rage as she shattered the glass, denting the surface underneath. Glass shards tore through the skin on her knuckles, re-opening the newly sealed wounds where she had struck the human, sinking inbetween the bones. A floodgate had opened and all the stress of everything that had happened on Nemtess flowed freely through her mind. Images of the violence, the fear, and the death happened again before her eyes. She was a little child again and wanted her mother.

Izuru was discovered, still in tears, collapsed amongst piles of broken glass and trails of blood. Invisible hands bore her aloft to a vacant cocoon, how long she lay there she knew not. A little voice made her stir; it came from the cocoon next to hers.

"Izuru?" a single eye, the other was covered by a bandage, gleamed at her in the darkness.

 _Keladi,_ Izuru brushed away the thin cover and reached out to her. Keladi's hand found hers and held it.

 _Hello, little sister,_ Izuru's lips twitched, her anxious heart swelled with relief.

 _I knew you would find me,_ Keladi squeezed.

Izuru was still holding Keladi's hand when she fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 3

**The Grace of The Mother, Hydra Cordatus System**

 _Better men._

The final words of Lieutenant Colonel Gausser were firmly implanted in the forefront of Pace Glowna's mind, again and again like a scratchy old record they repeated but he could not make sense of them. The old man, in a firm yet fatherly manner, had ordered him, a mere adjutant, a nobody, to seek out these better men and endeavour to build something that could not be destroyed in a blink of an eye, to make something of the madness that gripped the galaxy. Despairing at being sent away from the fight when he was needed most, Glowna had been overcome with grief at his 'cowardice' and had not thought about the old man's words at all. But now, out of danger momentarily and without objective, Glowna began to think.

 _Just how am I supposed to carry out the old man's wish? These better men he spoke of, are they out there somewhere? Do they even exist?_

Still suffering from diarrhoea, Glowna perched precariously on a steel bucket, one of many set up as latrines as far out of the way as possible beside the glimmering barrier dividing the ship and the vacuum. Groaning he bent over double and waited for the next bout. The stink of faeces and urine he had long since grown accustomed to and did not gag or retch like others who came over to do their business. A few men had thrown up, either into the overflowing buckets or across the deck. Glowna turned a blind eye, he had seen worse; and this was nothing compared to Nemtess.

 _Am I a better man?_ He wondered inbetween bouts, _the old man thought so, he was so certain that I was worth saving._

The boy, Larn, Glowna recalled the disturbing calm in his boyish-face, the soft way he spoke and his bluntness and lack of respect towards the brigadier. It unnerved Glowna that one so young could seem to empty, so drained of spirit. But if what he had told the brigadier was true then he had every right to be that way.

 _Is he a better man?_ _What motivated him to do such things?_ _Was it devotion to the imperial cause, the Emperor, or was it his friends, their deaths sending him over the edge?_

Then again, Glowna looked at the survivors of Nemtess and thought, _are we all better men simply because we lived and they did not? Does surviving make you a better person than the dead man next to you? Does death only take the wicked and leave the good behind? Or is it the other way round?_

Many pairs of eyes followed him as he stumbled back to where the remnants of the division's headquarters squatted or sat, questioning, interrogating eyes with so many questions begging to be answered. As an officer he was supposed to have an answer for everything the non-commissioned officer or other rank asked, never doubting, never unsure. But what was an officer that did not know the answers, a useless weight, or worse; a lifer. The nickname 'lifer' was bestowed on officers that abused authority they did not deserve to have and was usually reserved for the Schola Progenium type, the ones that had the right political connections and family ties, effectively allowing them a straight trip to the officers' mess without ever setting foot in the field. Glowna had the OR view of such men, unusual being an officer himself but after serving alongside the despicable coward and gong-hunter Max Kaukasios, Glowna's head had been turned. He himself, although having been effectively ordered not to fight with his battalion, was safe in the notion that he was not a lifer. What the other ranks thought of him, a sickly, tottering wreck of a man, he could only have described as dismissive. Having been run through the mill they were in no mood to be ordered around by officers and certainly not by a diarrhoea-ridden adjutant. Glowna left them alone. They still had their rifles, their bodies intact and their freedom.

 _Freedom…_ Glowna pondered the word, casting a glance over the gangs of men in dirty, tattered khaki, olive and navy grey. Did they believe themselves free, spirited away from the clutches of Chaos by xeno hands?

 _Xenos?_ The very thought of coming together under a banner of truce with the Stickies was heresy, complete utter heresy. Glowna was as all humans should be, showing complete reverence to the God-Emperor, long may he reign, and displaying pious devotion to the sacred Omnissiah, the Machine-God, for it was his hand that controlled the machine-spirit that inhabited all things mechanical. Of course that was before the fall of Nereus and the defeat on Nemtess, for Glowna now could barely speak of the Emperor or the Omnissiah after seeing so much happen, to him and everyone else. The distrust of any and all Xenos was still there only the piety was gone. He did not love the Emperor anymore, not since the old man's death.

"Brigadier, may I congratulate you for the service you led," Glowna said, coming upon the division staff.

"Bucked the men up," Brigadier Vorbeck sitting in the centre of it all said, rubbing the underside of his grey chin. Making a gap between a pair of clerks, he invited Glowna in.

"Rather a moving piece you said at the end, sir," Colonel Zandyke said.

"I thought it necessary," Vorbeck nodded in acknowledgment.

Glowna could tell the divisional commander was employing the stiff upper lip in full force. He too was struggling to remain composed and dignified as an officer should. Vorbeck however looked terribly unwell and kept dabbing at his sweaty brow, like everyone he too was being affected by the heat. The slightest mention that he might rest on a pile of blankets provoked an angry reaction and an insistence that they instead be handed out to the men, his exact words being that he would not rest on a bed until every single one of his men could do so too; it was a betrayal otherwise.

 _There, Pace_ , a little voice said to Glowna, _there are your better men_.

Settling down, the adjutant fell silent and let the conversation be carried on by the other officers present, all being senior to him it was a given that he only speak when spoken to now, proper manners and a certain degree of professionalism must be maintained; they were still an army after all.

"…still others as yet unaccounted for, sir, we do not yet know where the Stickies are keeping them," Colonel Creel said to the brigadier. Glowna had zoned out and only caught the tail-end, at this his ears pricked up and he became attentive. The whereabouts of the rest of the Nerian 3rd Division, the Kallistan Rifles, 3rd Atreides Cavalry Brigade plus the odds and sods from 17/21 Lancers and 9/18 Recce were a mystery, not even the brigadier knew. Their hosts had so far avoided any contact and as such everyone was in the dark. The silence worried Glowna.

A few inquisitive bods, restless from sitting around idle had ventured as close to the hangar's barriers as was possible and were struck with awe at the masses of Stickie vessels set against a violet nebula. Sometime before anyone had realised the ship joined a fleet, the presence of so many xeno warships filling space only served to stir up unease and general discontent amongst the men. The cynics, at least half of the men, with their baleful eyes flitting about nervously cursed quietly, prayed or just glowered. Those more hopeful, while no less nervous, reminded themselves that they had been spared the cage and still had themselves, their pals, and their arms. Glowna quietly observed the many mutterings and decided that the men needed reassurance, and they needed it soon.

I was neither a hopeful nor a cynic, there was nothing to be gained from entrenching myself in either camp. I was asleep not because I was tired but for the reason that there was nothing else to do and I did not want to talk to the strangers around me, none of whom were in my platoon, Martti Sinric had been the last and he had gone. My first thought on hearing he had bought the farm was exactly the same as when Erkki Makala, another private in my section, went down and that was that he could not be dead, because if he was dead then the war was all wrong and he had died in vain. Aimo Garst, another Cain Company man, kept warmly reassuringly me that Martti Sinric did not die in vain and had saved my life. It fell on deaf ears though as I simply shrugged and said that it didn't mean anything to his apparent dismay, Cyrano's too. I did not know them well enough to readily speak about what had happened on Nemtess, as far as I was concerned what happened on Nemtess stayed on Nemtess.

Awakening from my doze I felt the empty space around my waist where my belt kit should have been, I missed it and the warmth of the zip-up flak jacket, feeling naked without them. Their absence was of little concern to me, what was of greater concern and, to my alarm when I discovered it had gone missing, was the battered stub pistol I had carried all the way across Nemtess. The theft, for what else could it have been, angered and distressed me for it was not really mine rather it belonged to Paul Meinerz, a platoon leader in my company whom I had looked up to in the brief time I had known him. The young officer, an outstanding combat leader had been up for a posthumous decoration, his glory however had been stolen by a repulsive lifer of a man named Max Kaukasios who was also our company commander. The former's death had saddened me, the latter's, though I did not see it had been long coming. Now Paul Meinerz's memory was carried only by a tiny few, a handful like I who had been there. The automatic I kept as a way to honour him but to remember also the threat of incompetents in command and the dangers they posed to us which was more often or not greater than the enemy.

"What ye doing?" I murmured hearing a gentle clack of two long needles Aimo had in both hands.

"Hmm?"

"What's all that?"

"My knitting," Aimo got to his knees from where he sat opposite me and held up the tiny garment he was making, it was pink.

"For you?"

"Nah, for my little one."

"I wondered about that," Leo Wind smirked. "Are you sure she's a pink person?"

"Well, girl, pink, that's how it goes," Aimo shrugged. "If it was a boy I'd do blue."

Cyrano grunted, said something incomprehensible and shook his head, "No child of mine would wear such gaudy attire, furs, furs!"

"Blue, I'd go for that," Leo Wind said.

"Why not green?" a new voice piped up.

"Who the hell are you?" I growled at a wetnose who was somehow a part of our group now.

"Jacklyn Cassius Molke," the wetnose said. "Now don't go calling me no rear-echelon mo—"

"Shuddup," I kicked the wetnose in the shin, not a hard kick, just enough to shut him up. He was well-fed and his clean combats told me he had either been serving in a second-line unit or had only just arrived on Nemtess before the evacuation; not long enough to see combat. This NIG should not have had the privilege of being in the company of veterans but away with the other green, no-buck wetnoses.

"Go on out of 'ere, NIG, you ain't welcome," I fixed the wetnose with a threatening glare.

"Oi let him stay," Aimo said. "He got nowhere else to go."

"Mmm," Cyrano agreed.

"Let him find his own friends," I pointed at the pair of stripes on my arm, the stitching had come out and the edges were hanging loose from my sleeve. "Look I'm a corporal, you little bastard, now go be green with someone else."

"Oh now you're just being a lifer, Larn," Aimo muttered. "A right Kaukasios…"

The mention of the hated name and I saw red. All fatigue and hunger I pushed out of my system, enraged at being affiliated with all the cause of my problems on Nemtess I dived into Aimo, accidently headbutting his crotch. A massive hand had me by my collar, hauling me away as I plaintively kicked and struggled. Shaking myself free from Cyrano's grip I snarled hoarsely at everyone, incensed at the company and the situation I was now in. "Worthless! Worthless, the lot o' ye!" I thumped my chest, seeing the spittle fly from my mouth, "all of you, worthless!" Rounding on the wetnose I grabbed him by his lapels and shook him roughly, "I didn't see you on Nemtess, you little rat. You got no right being here!" The group was now silent. Others had heard and were now witness, watching me with flat, pitiless stares. "You don't know how many good blokes died so you could be here, all o' ye!" I rasped, my throat dry. "They were better than you, all of you!"

Abruptly my blow-out ended and, conscious of the many many eyes on me, I whirled about with as much dignity as I could muster and stamped off.

"What's his problem?" Molke asked, his eyes flashing from person to person. "Did you see the way he—"

"Shut up, Molke!" Aimo snapped. He too felt like kicking the young recruit. "Had to run your mouth, didn't you?"

"W– I just wanted to know what's his beef that's all; bit bonkers if you ask me."

"Right," Aimo knelt beside Molke and said sternly, "you've never been in combat have you?"

"No—"

"Don't talk, just nod or shake."

"Mm," Molke made a little noise through his tightly-clamped lips.

"You've never been in combat, Corporal Larn has. Corporal Larn lost his entire platoon on Nemtess and nearly his company. He lost many friends, Molke, many many of them, you don't know what that feels like so…" Aimo clapped him on the shoulder, hard. "Don't go giving him grief else I'll give you a bunch of fives then send you out there alone where you will die, face-down and no-one will care. What you'll do from now on is listen to Corporal Larn and I, we know things you don't."

"I…" Molke, cowed, stared in the direction Larn had stormed off in and swallowed weakly.

"You _listen_ to people who know," Aimo's voice was hard. "Or you'll be sent straight home, an ugly carcass wrapped in a zinc casket with metal handles. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, sir," Molke seemed close to tears.

"Don't call me, sir, only arses are called sir and most of them are dead." Aimo picked up Molke's carbine and brandished it before taking it away with him, "until you can be trusted I'll hang onto this." The humbled Molke looked on meekly.

Aimo came and found me later. I was sat cross-legged as near to the great barrier as I could get, my nose almost touching the surface, gazing at the myriad of colours in the depths of space. Pinks, purples and blues were smeared across the stars, nature's beauty forever untarnished by war. The foreground was dominated by numerous exotic xeno vessels, their strange bodies' bonelike structure unnaturally shaped to resemble strange creatures I had no names for. It was a haunting, harrowing to witness such a mighty host. It did not seem possible that the Xenos could muster so great a number of warships for surely the Imperial Navy ruled the vacuum; that was what we had been told. But like with everything the imperial warmachine had pumped into my mind, it was probably a lie. All this time we had been lied to by the officers, the commissars, the Ecclesiarchy, the entire imperium, led to believe we were the galaxy's rightful rulers and the driving force of goodness and order. I wondered what the great God-Emperor would have to say about it now, what we and the galaxy had become.

"Alright?" Aimo's voice, gentle and without a hint of confrontation, came from behind.

"Yeah," I grunted.

"Not something you see every day is it?" Aimo sat beside me and scratched his cheek.

"Nah."

"Molke don't know anything, he didn't mean anything by anything just…"

"Nah, don't mean nothing," I sighed, falling into a morose silence and hoping it would deflect Aimo.

"Don't mean nothing."

Aimo did not budge and remained squatting with the little rifle balanced across his knees.

"I'm short," he said after a long silence.

"Short?"

"Nerians do a two-year tour then they get a year out of the field before going back in for another twenty-four months. I'm twenty-nine days and a wake-up till it's back to Haven." Glancing at me he asked, "when are you going home?"

"Don't know," I gave the tiniest shake of my head. I could not be bothered to point out to him that I was not from Nereus and therefore ineligible for the leave.

"S'a funny way we do it, I ain't complaining though, far as I'm concerned the rest of the Guard, in for life, ain't the right way to go about it."

"Your kid…"

"Her and her are on Haven waiting, the missus and I had to save up everything we had to get her to the hospital there, took us a while, she was about to plop the little one too, got her to the hospital just in time. I didn't see it though, had to leave for deployment so uh… my daughter's two a half nearly now and I never seen her. Course photos can't be sent via the cogs and any pictures in letters get censored so all I know is what her mother's told me. She's beautiful, gonna grow up beautiful and healthy and strong. We'll be a family again soon…" Aimo bowed his head and grinned. "You got a wife?"

"Nah."

"Girl?"

"Nah."

"Family?"

"Parents, back home, dunno 'aven't heard in months; think they think I'm dead."

"You ain't written them?"

I shrugged, "I'm gonna write to 'em, yeah, but first I gotta write to my mates' families, that's what I'm gonna do."

"Ain't that a job for the company commander?"

"Kaukasios is dead, good riddance. I wouldn't trust him to write anything, he was never there, he never cared, not like Paul Meinerz did."

"So you gonna write to Martti's family then?"

"Yeah, Martti, Staf, Antti, Erkki, and Jussi."

"They your section?"

"Yeah."

"Are they…?"

"They took on real estate yeah," I replied casually. "S'pose, cause Kaukasios is gone, Sarn't Scherder too, that I'd better do it, ain't no-one gonna know what happened otherwise."

"Yeah, better a mate who was with 'em write rather than some lifer officer."

"Guard would just write 'em the same crap every family gets when they get the letter, impersonal, uncaring." Pulling a crushed cigarette from my breast pocket I put it in my mouth. "Would ye?"

"Troop," Aimo snorted, holding a tiny flame from his lighter underneath the drooping butt.

Coughing as the dryness caught the back of my throat I rubbed the back of my neck and rolled my neck. "Did he suffer?"

"Who?"

"Martti, you were there, weren't ye?"

"Dunno, took a different ship off Nemtess. Didn't see you till we was all aboard this tub."

"Hunh, who else was I with? Who brought me aboard?"

"Uhh, Cyrano, that pilot too, some Stickie had you over its shoulder, thought you was dead."

I stared at Aimo for a moment, incredulous, then said, "you what…?"

"Some Stickie brought you aboard."

"Who?"

"Fuck should I know? It wore a hood, it was tall, got a fucked up eye. Bloody madness we throwing it in with these Xenos now…"

I dismissed the thought instantly it was too much of a coincidence to be her.

"Pfft, don't matter, we're 'ere now."

"Yeah."

Tapping ash from the butt of my cigarette I watched it land on the deck beneath my boots. I didn't care anymore, not for the Stickies and not for anything else.

"You know I wish I died down on Nemtess with them, I'm sorry I didn't," I said after another pause.

"No, cause anything's better than being dead cause the dead know only one thing, that it's better to be alive," Aimo tutted. "Don't do all that fatalism shit, you're still alive cause the Emperor wants you to be."

"Oh don't give me that pious crap," I groaned. "There ain't some other special place out there where everything's gonna be alright and the Emperor's looking out for you; there's just this one. It's not gonna get any better, just worse."

"You don't know that."

"Won't get better, just won't."

I chewed through a nail and spat it out wishing Aimo would leave me alone, he eventually realised he was talking to a rock and left without a word. Before long I forgot he had ever been there.

 **The Arabulucu**

When the healers had told Keladi Lethidia that she would lose the use of her left eye she had not been in the least bit perturbed. The pre-Nemtess Keladi would have cried her eye out, protested, kicked up a storm of a fuss, and flat-out refused to accept it. The being that came away from Nemtess acknowledged the facts with calm indifference and let the healers treat her. The strange numbness that had her in its grasp seemed to bottle up her emotions, her ability to sympathise too had been locked away, sealed up tight leaving a body crudely functioning on autopilot. It made her turn a blind eye to the scores of wounded around her; she did not care.

It was after Izuru Numerial's return that the numbness began to desert Keladi, giving way to a torrid of emotions: distress from her captivity, anxiety as to Izuru's whereabouts, pain from her wounds, and sheer relief at seeing her safe. The sight of Izuru resting in the cocoon next to hers made her spirits soar. Throughout the night cycle they had ahold of each other's' hand, not letting go until Keladi awoke and, as Izuru was awake too, she slipped out of her cocoon.

"Bless Jain Zar," Keladi stood on her tiptoes and threw her arms around Izuru, smiling happily. Izuru smelt terribly, her face was caked in dirt, and her eyes were red and sore not that Keladi minded.

"The Mother and the Phoenix King," Izuru replied softly, patting Keladi's shoulder. "How do you fare?"

Breaking the embrace Keladi hopped back down onto her feet. "I am afraid my left eye no longer functions, I have a four cracked ribs, I have also a desire to renounce the path of the Banshee and return to the field a ranger," she said, touching her side where the bandages were wrapped underneath her thin robes.

"I recall your request, yes, but are you alright in mind?"

Brushing her red mane behind one ear Keladi nodded, "body lacks purpose, the mind is idle and needs stimulation. I wish to leave this place as soon as possible."

"As do I, but do not be so keen to throw yourself back into battle," Izuru's face was severe as she regarded the young Eldar. "Return to your cocoon, you must recuperate."

"Are you, are you wounded?" Keladi stood on tiptoes again to see into Izuru's cocoon.

"Body and mind are whole but do not seek a fight like the reckless young maiden before me."

Keladi's face fell. She self-consciously touched her brow and her permanently shut eye below, wincing a little.

"One that is likewise brave and kind."

Keeping her head down, Keladi's eye flickered up, her face splitting into a warm smile.

"This belongs to you," Izuru produced the blue scarf Keladi had worn on Nemtess from her robes.

Giving a silent gasp, Keladi buried her face in the scarf and began to weep. "I thought it lost."

"It had been stolen by another. I made them see the error of their ways."

"I can find no words…"

"To express your gratitude? You need none," Izuru said. She felt the corners of her mouth twitch.

Keladi saw the unnatural expression and asked, "do you find it difficult?"

"Difficult?"

"Just smiling, I cannot recall you ever doing so."

"Rest now, you will need it."

Sinking back into the comfort of her cocoon Keladi tied her scarf around her neck, the soft fabric familiar and comforting. She worried for Izuru, the older ranger was keeping something from her, nursing her pain, not being open with it. But then again Keladi was too.

Izuru received a visitor later, a handsome foreigner in pure white armour, even whiter than Keladi's banshee suit. She blushed when the tall Eldar, introducing himself as Avele Swifteye, kissed her hand.

"Never before have these eyes looked upon such rare beauty." He smiled, his eyes lingering on her damaged face. Unable to reply coherently Keladi mumbled something unintelligible and turned away embarrassed. Izuru was halfway out of her cocoon and apparently intending to leave.

"Captain," she nodded politely.

"Lady," Avele Swifteye nodded back. "The council are convening. There will be a vote to determine the position of chief farseer, my farseer wishes you attend."

"And I shall," Izuru stood up and smoothed her robes down.

"Can I accompany you?" Keladi asked.

"Rest, you must recuperate. I shall return."

Avele Swifteye made the point that Izuru would not be admitted before the council in the state she was a second time during the journey to the upper levels. "If you wish to cleanse yourself, which you would be wise to do, you may use my quarters."

"That will not be necessary," Izuru said sharply. Then, with less force she said, "I am armed you know."

"You would miss," Avele Swifteye looked at her, grinning.

"Rangers never miss."

"The perfect warrior, handsome and dangerous."

"Please do not waste your charm on me, corsair, I am certain there are other maidens around you can chase."

"I can say I have tasted many fruits in my time, many but not all."

"Let us be frank," Izuru stopped in the middle of the empty corridor and faced the corsair. "I have no love for the corsairs or for Biel-Tan. I do this for Ulthwé as I believe Macha can provide the best future possible for us."

Avele Swifteye moved a step closer. "Macha has no love for foreigners and even moreso if they are mixed-race. You do not know Biel-Tan like I do, they do not tolerate the presence of anyone they deem 'impure'."

"I am well versed in our views on purity, Avele Swifteye, do not lecture me on the subject," Izuru said, meeting Avele Swifteye's gaze and fixing him with a steely-eyed glare.

"If Macha takes the seat you will be the first she purges, why do you think she has called you to her side?"

"You believe she intends to trap me?"

"I know," he was now inches from her face, his eyes level with hers. "Macha will not willingly let anybody take her father's place, she has made certain that she will win. Once she has the seat you will be interned, put on trial and executed, your family too."

"I have committed no crime, there is nothing Macha can try me for Ulthwé will not allow it."

"Macha is a politician, she lies, bends wills, turns the unwilling to her cause. I hear you have already disobeyed the council once, your insubordination has given her the _exact_ ammunition she needs to bury you; she will use that and your heritage to put you to death."

"If there is an ounce of truth to this then what would you have me do, flee?"

"I can protect you, you need only take my hand in bondage and you and your children will be saved, Macha will not be able to touch you," he whispered, laying a hand on her arm. "She will not harm the bondmate of the Duke of Asteri Reach, you have my word."

Shrugging off the corsair's hand, Izuru sneered at him, "I am afraid I must disappoint you, captain, my heart lies with another."

"It will be a political union only, all that matters is that we appear together in public but you will enjoy power and influence as I do, you can rise above your lowly station, cast off the mantle of the ranger and embrace the title Duchess of Asteri Reach. Your children will live without shame, you will be Eldar! No longer a half-breed speck with nothing to her name."

Drawing back her fist, Izuru prepared to strike Avele Swifteye.

"Go on, go on hit me! I am a rogue and a maiden-chaser yes I admit it but I stand by my word," he raised his head and indicated his chin. "T'will be the first instance I have let a female strike me, do it."

"To what purpose?"

"Purpose?"

"To what purpose would you assist me?"

"Not for the reason you believe. Macha was close to a corsair warlord by the name of Saarania, her death on Grendel changed Macha, she began to behave erratically, displaying a callous, brutal nature not unlike our cousins, the Druchii. I now fear that a day will come when she inflicts a purge on her subordinates, any being with even the slightest hint of initiative or creativity will be in danger of her. She loves power and will never relinquish it."

"Saarania…"

Memories of Grendel came back vividly, of the so-called princess and her corsairs, a mixture of excessively savage thugs and sycophants that lived for the killing.

"You are familiar with the Void Dragons?"

"I worked with them as an advisor," Izuru said, carefully guarding her thoughts.

"Then you will know that it is now the late Princess Saarania."

"Her bond-mate?"

"Lies with her."

"I will face Macha," Izuru decided. "I will not let her think I have fled in fear for my life like a human would. My fate will be decided face to face with her."

"Reconsider, for your children's sake, Izuru," Avele Swifteye begged.

"Speak not in familiar terms, corsair, you are a stranger in the night; it would be folly to trust you."

"Then you are lost," he murmured as Izuru swept away.

Every tier of seating in the upper council chamber was full when Izuru and Avele Swifteye arrived, forcing them to stand to the sides in the semi-darkness with other beings deemed less important than the likes of the Seer Council as well as onlookers.

"See, my farseer has not made her presence known yet. Only when the chamber is full and everyone seated will she stage her arrival," Avele said in an undertone. The low buzz of conversation swept through the ranks of the gathered farseers, autarchs, exarchs, and high-ranking aspect warriors; a multi-coloured wash of white, red, amber, blue, and gold. Izuru saw no rangers present so clearly no-one was there to represent Ulthwé's small ranger contingent, it was entirely dominated by the others warrior castes, most of which were Goldhelms; the elite of Ulthwé's Black Guardian caste.

"There will be no competition, Macha has foreseen it," Avele Swifteye continued, now whispering. "Elscarn Caerys," his eyes fixed on the white-haired farseer seated on the opposite side of the chamber, "a veteran warrior charismatic and fierce, she knows of the fickle ways of the people of Ulthwé but combine that with her dogma and… she will not last a month, neither will you."

"How did become privy to such knowledge?"

"My farseer's robes conceal more than just a penchant for war and politics, espionage, the right amount of coin here and there can work wonders."

"So she spies on others."

"Wouldn't you if you were vying for a hotly-contested seat of authority?"

"Has she no honour?"

"Honour?" Avele Swifteye let out a short bark of a laugh causing some heads to turn. "Honour means nothing in this place. You either take what you can for yourself or be destroyed, that is our way."

"Madness," Izuru shook her head sadly. "That we bicker and squabble amongst ourselves whilst our enemy lengthens our pursuit of him, well that is simply incomprehensible."

"I bid you welcome to politics, you had best hope your stay is uneventful," Avele Swifteye said dryly. He now pointed out another contender for the seat. "Taldeer, she has youth on her side, not like the aged crones with which she surrounds herself. Taldeer's ascension could bring a new wave of promising youth to the Seer Council, maybe, maybe heralding a far more open policy when it comes to dealing with the prey. But alas she speaks bluntly and without charisma, she will not be loved, not like the late Eldrad Ulthran."

"You speak of him in the past tense, as if he has long been forgotten!"

"He might as well be, his departure at this time could not have been worse. We need a leader right now to unify us, give us purpose! Without a figure like Eldrad Ulthran we are scattered, helpless."

"Pray for a miracle."

"No need, one is coming," Avele's voice was desperate as he clasped Izuru's hand. "Be with me and I will shield you from Macha's wrath."

"I will let no-one come between us," Izuru retorted, shaking her hand free. "This is our fight, not yours."

"Lest you suffer the same fate as your children's father," he hissed in her ear.

"Begone!" Izuru clasped the butt of her holstered weapon and discreetly drew it, pointing it at the corsair. "Feed me lies once more and this human weapon will be your end."

Pushing her way through the crowd Izuru left Avele's side and found a spot a few tiers up from the floor in the shadows where she could observe the entire chamber.

 _Where are you?_ She saw the corsair Avele faraway looking disgruntled, Elscarn Caerys conversing warmly with a colleague, Taldeer, aloof and sitting still, her confederates surrounding her in an awkward silence.

Many minutes had gone by after the last official had taken their seat. Every row was full, every cushion taken, the area not taken up by the wide floor and the speaker's dais was packed; the audience waited.

For a time the chatter went on, the coming of the old prophet Rathe White-eye stayed every tongue and turned all eyes to the speaker's dais. The Prophet, older than even Eldrad Ulthran, mounted the dais slowly and raised his grey head in preparation for his address.

 _Now, Macha, show yourself,_ Izuru, half-in, half-out of the shadows waited. Macha came exactly as she predicted. The Prophet had scarcely drawn breath before a woman in sapphire and crimson appeared from a portal in the ante-chamber. Heads turned and there were gasps as the newcomer made her entrance. Even Izuru was caught off-guard by Macha's appearance. Coming up the flight of steps to the council chamber, Macha looked positively regal. She wore tight, form-fitting blue robes with white ribs patterned on the torso displaying her formidable bust. Covering her shoulders and trailing on the steps below her a good two feet was a cape of pure crimson. Two finely sung pads in the same pattern as the robes she wore sat on her shoulders. Her hair, of the same shade as her cape was fashioned in a topknot that stuck up above her crown with not a single hair out of place. Mounted behind her neck a headdress curved over and around her head, ending in a medallion emblazoned with the rune of Biel-Tan, a symbol of reincarnation. At her flanks were six Shadow Spectres, guardians in ice-blue armour carrying pikes sung from wraithbone. All had full face helmets and were immeasurably tall, taller than even her.

 _The wolf bares its teeth,_ Izuru's eyes narrowed. She did not like the blatant show of force, obviously the presence of the bodyguards was not for Macha's protection for she was perfectly able to do that herself.

 _There will be no competition._ Avele Swifteye's words suddenly had a great deal more clarity.

 _There will be no vote_ , Izuru realised. _Macha will not allow it_.

The six Shadow Spectres took positions around the floor and stood with their feet apart and pikes firmly planted. Macha, her eyebrows arched, a subtle sneer on her face bore down on Rathe White-eye.

"Lady Macha," the Prophet, though blind could feel her consciousness. "Are you vying for the seat of the Chief Farseer?"

Head held high, Macha replied, "I _am_ the Chief Farseer."

 _The audacity!_ Izuru, stunned, came forwards from her corner to better view the spectacle.

"A vote will shortly be held to determine that position, Lady Macha—"

"Unless a blood relative comes forth and makes it known," Macha spoke over him. Sweeping around the floor she raised her voice. "Where is my father, the great Eldrad Ulthran? Why desert his race in their time of need? Has mind taken leave of body, the senses lulled by age?"

"Who are you to speak ill of the Chief Farseer?" Taldeer stood.

"I am his offspring, not the first, and especially not the last. And do not speak ill of him, for in the daughter there is nought but respect for the progenitor, he made me what I am that is the leader Ulthwé needs in this hour."

"Outsider!" a voice rang from the crowd.

"And proud of it!" Macha replied jovially. "For are we not a race of wanderers, of nomads clinging to our way by our fingernails? Do you think it is not time we arose from the ashes, like the phoenix, to regain our lost glory? There are some that speak of us as a dying race long past its prime: I call them fools, for we are a volcano on the brink of its eruption, a storm about to break on the shores of the prey, the devourers, the Druchii; all that seek our annihilation. We are the titans in the sky, the ghosts in the night, the heroes in the mud, and the harbingers of death!"

Izuru could see the effect Macha's rhetoric was having on the council; it was so like her father. More and more were nodding in agreement, there was no competition and Macha was little by little taking what was hers.

"Perhaps, if you would consider it, a bond, a unity between the might of Craftworld Ulthanash Shelwé and the militancy of Biel-Tan be implemented, one of mutual benefit. Our combined forces will crush all that dare oppose us and usher in a new age of prosperity. As the human empire crumbles both from internal and external strife we will strike at their worlds with such ferocity that they will tremble before us and fall to their knees in submission. Like all their kind they will be blasted back into their caves and their oceans with wraithbone, lasblaster, and cleansing fire. We shall once more be the rulers of the galaxy; the stars will again live and die at our command."

 _Finely spun_ , Izuru thought, impressed by Macha's words, her silent disapproval was not shared by the wider audience most of which were applauding in delight or cheering. A select few, the very tiny minority that still stood behind Elscarn Caerys or Taldeer wore dark looks and were muttering to one another understandably dismayed at the newcomer striding in and dominating the council before any one of them could speak themselves.

In the centre of everything Macha was wearing that irritating, arrogant half-smirk of one who knows that she has triumphed without having to even try. The sight of her standing above everyone, smug and satisfied enraged Izuru, all she could see was another Saarania, another tyrant.

" _Damn her,"_ she whispered, " _damn her_."

"Gentlebeings, please I ask for your attention once more," Macha cried, waiting for the noise to die down. Once everything had settled she continued, "I am afraid it is with a heavy heart I come before you. To my distress I discovered a short while ago a dear friend and confidant had been taken from me. Princess Saarania of the Void Dragons, valued friend of Biel-Tan was tragically killed in action. She now rests with her bond-mate Ulthyr." On cue a pair of litters materialised from a portal guided by four more Shadow Spectres.

 _Jain Zar_ , Izuru saw the shapes of two corpses wrapped in burial shrouds resting on the slabs. _Macha, you haven't…_

"Grendel was where they fell, their bodies forgotten. But I brought them home and laid them side by side so they will be together in death."

Leaving the two litters hovering above the floor the Shadow Spectres joined their comrades, now forming a cordon around the floor with their pikes. Macha left the dais and went to the two bodies.

"Look at what they did to them," she swept away first one shroud then the other.

 _Oh, Asuryan._ Izuru had to look away from the two half-decomposed faces; the memories of when both Saarania and Ulthyr were alive were too recent. Shouts of dismay and disgust came from around her.

"Dear Ulthyr, shot to death by a filthy human of all beings," Macha's eyes were moist when she spoke, "a tragedy that one so noble be laid low by such degenerates."

 _Was that how he died?_ All Izuru could recall was the knife, her knife, he had stabbed her with. That memory would remain with her forever, merely thinking of it made her side twinge painfully. The mention of humans was all that was needed to spurn the crowd into a tirade against them, Macha's influence was spreading.

"Sweet Saarania, sister of mine." Macha covered up Ulthyr and revealed Saarania's face.

" _No_ …" Izuru gasped, the sight of the thing under the shroud horrified her, brief flashes of the blood rage that had consumed her as she had set about defiling the already dead Saarania on Grendel tormented her.

"Taken from us too soon, too soon to provide an heir to further her line," Macha was now openly weeping. "Bless them both. They are neither craftworlders but occupy a special place in my heart, their souls will shortly be added to the Infinity Circuit of Biel-Tan; both deserve to live on."

 _You lie_ _both were monsters,_ Izuru's fists clenched tightly.

"I regret that I have not spoken truthfully with regards to the princess's passing," Macha said to the now completely sympathetic crowd. Her eyes were dry when she next spoke. "Dear Saarania passed not at the hand of a human but by one of us…"

That was the final straw for the council. Shouting erupted many standing and shaking their fists, incensed that Saarania had been murdered by one of their own.

 _Blessed Asuryan,_ Izuru now understood why Macha had wanted her close by. Avele Swifteye was right. The corsair stared at her from across the chamber, his eyes wide and imploring.

 _No_ , _I will confront her face to face, do not interfere._

"And…" Macha held up her hands for quiet. "You know who you are, Izuru Numerial, reveal thyself."

Macha turned, her movements deliberately slow, and cast her gaze around the chamber. "Izuru Numerial killed Princess Saarania," she said matter-of-factly, having to shout to make herself heard above the noise.

Removing the stub pistol from her belt, Izuru pulled her right sleeve over the gun, concealing it, and stepped into view.

"Come down to me," Macha beckoned. "Have words with your farseer."

"You are not my farseer!" Izuru shouted, shutting her ears to the insults and slurs hurled at her as she went down to the floor.

"Kinslayer, look at what you have done, have you no shame or are you simply too great a sociopath to empathise?"

Wearing a mask of determination, Izuru ducked underneath the interlocked pikes and faced Macha, each on opposite sides of the floor. "I would do it again and again and again were it possible, for love makes you do strange deeds. I could not, would not stand by whilst that monster took my offspring for her own. She could not bear children so why not steal them from a half-caste? Yes, I am a half-breed, human blood runs through my veins and I am proud of that!"

Izuru took a step forward towards Macha, switching the pistol's safety to fire. She would end Macha's reign before it began, there would not be another Saarania.

"Love for your children—"

"You could never know, you have never loved another being, we are all pieces to you aren't we?" Izuru began to raise her right arm. Macha was separated from her by the two bodies, her upper torso unprotected, it would be easy, just two shots to the chest and one to the head. Izuru's finger slowly squeezed the trigger.

"My Lady!" a hand shot out in front, barring Izuru's way. Avele Swifteye was there gently pressing her arm down.

"Captain, I did not summon you!" Macha barked, bemused at the corsair's intervention.

Izuru shot him a furious look but remained silent.

"Judgement has been passed. This thing shall be put to death, its associates too."

"Then you will be condemning the Duchess of Asteri Reach! The lady expressed a desire to bond with the captain of the farseer's corsair fleet which the former graciously accepted," Avele Swifteye said quickly.

"You would bond with a half-breed?" Macha sneered.

" _What are you doing?_ " Izuru hissed.

"Yes, both parties agreed before this meeting, it if official."

The council did not know what to think of that. Emotions were running high, questions as to what was going on were shouted over heads; confusion reigned. Realising her captain was sincere Macha turned a baleful, hate-filled pair of eyes to Izuru. Now that Izuru was protected by Avele Swifteye she could do nothing legal to her.

"Come, quickly now," Avele Swifteye grabbed Izuru by the arm and pulled her away from the centre. Looking over her shoulder Izuru saw the evil look Macha was giving her.

"I will never bond with you, corsair," she spat.

"And you'll never have to. I am getting you as far away from her as I can; the humans too before she purges them like she would have done you."

 _Fare thee well, half-breed_ , Macha's voice was in Izuru's mind as she and Avele Swifteye moved unopposed to the portals. _By Asuryan's will and Isha's grace our paths will cross once more, not tomorrow or in the next month or the next_ , _but when_ _they do your song will not be sung in remembrance, the stars will not sing out your name, only the worms will remember as they devour your lifeless, forgotten body._


	5. Chapter 4

**The Arabulucu, Webway Portal Tempest of Sorrow, Hydra Cordatus System**

Three gongs in slow succession boomed throughout the battleship.

"Hark, the fleet departs the materium for the Webway," Avele Swifteye laughed softly.

"You find that humorous?" Izuru replied, yanking his hand from her arm once more.

"Their timing could not have been better, come, it is time we gave the fleet the slip."

Hurrying through portal after portal Izuru and Avele fled the upper tier of the Arabulucu with all haste.

"Speak softly, those loyal to Macha are already onboard, and trust no-one," Avele murmured as a platoon of aspect warriors in the white and green garb of Biel-Tan trooped past.

"I never have," Izuru pulled her hood up and drew her cameleoline cloak around her.

"Good. Macha's wrath will be severe but we will not be pursued as long as she is occupied with the council. Be prepared for violence."

"I always am," Izuru drew back sleeve revealing the handgun.

"You carry a human weapon?" Avele said in astonishment.

"Were time an ally I would regale you with a tale of such an absurd nature you would twice call me liar."

"Another time then, but I would not be so audacious as to employ it against Macha's warriors, outright murder would enrage her but with a weapon of the prey… it would prompt her to declare outright war on you; no matter how far you ran she would—"

"I understand, corsair," Izuru replied simply. "I must return to the houses of healing first, I cannot leave Keladi behind to incur Macha's wrath, and I would never forgive myself if Keladi was hurt again because of me."

"A detour would be unwise."

"Keladi is family," Izuru said, she meant it.

"Do not tarry too long. The council cannot stall her forever. When you have her make your way to the portside hangar in the fore section, I will be waiting," Avele, turning away for a brief second looked back and found nothing but thin air where the ranger had been. Smiling, he liked what he saw, or rather what he did not see, the corsair took a bow. "Such spirit."

The tumult in the healing houses had lessened as the flow of wounded from the action in the Nemesis System slowed to a more manageable pace, alleviating the strain the healers had endured in the last few cycles. The first healer Izuru saw was stretched out fast asleep on a pallet at the edge of the rows of cocoons in the throes of exhaustion, dishevelled and wearing robes flecked with little red crystals.

 _Let no being disturb your slumber,_ Izuru thought, treading silently past him. _Like the breath of wind I am invisible._

Keladi was awake and humming quietly to herself, a pleasant sounding tune common amongst the female youth of Ulthwé. Izuru had not heard it in years. "A fine voice, one befitting a howling banshee," Izuru smiled, clasping her hands behind her back.

Keladi's face lit up then turned sombre, "I am unbefitting the title of banshee. I was never one of them."

"Then allow yourself to be reborn as a ranger," Izuru took Keladi's hand and helped her from the cocoon. "I will sponsor your journey on the path, find your feet now." Keladi wobbled unsteadily on her bare feet prompting Izuru to take her arm around her shoulders. "Come now, dark forces are at work, you and I are in danger."

"The prey?"

"Worse, our own people seek our destruction."

"Who?" Keladi looked at Izuru with a wide, fearful eye.

"A foreigner claiming to be the offspring of the chief farseer is taking control of the fleet, she has a personal vendetta with me. We would be wise to flee before it is too late."

"But the fleet has entered the Webway…"

"It will be to our advantage. I have an ally who will help us slip away."

"I am able to walk unassisted, I just cannot see like I used to. My thanks for coming back for me."

"Your words warm the heart, Keladi Lethidia," Izuru squeezed her shoulder. "Let us be away."

"I shall be reaching adulthood in a short while," Keladi smiled. "What better gift than a second chance to make something of my training."

Disapproving glances followed Keladi and Izuru on account of the formers' bare feet, it being viewed as offensive in Eldar culture to show bare skin unless in private. Izuru's heart leapt into her mouth on every instance she saw warriors in the green and white of Biel-Tan. It did not seem possible they would be permitted to leave unopposed.

"They stare at me like I am a freak," Keladi said.

"Your scars are your armour and your shield. Wear them with pride, Keladi, and don't ever let any being tell you that you were a fool to fight in the war against Chaos."

"Mm, the ally you speak of, I have met him before have I not?"

"Indeed though do not mistake beauty for goodness. Corsairs are raiders, pirates first and foremost who pillage and plunder for their own selfish gains. The question of betrayal is when, not if."

"You are wise beyond your years, Izuru. I have the utmost confidence in your leadership."

The two made it to the Arabulucu's foremost portside hangar bay unaccosted but the ease of which they had accomplished that part of the plan aroused Izuru's suspicion.

"Caution, it has been too easy," she warned Keladi.

"I sense no treachery," Keladi shrugged.

"Do not shrug, that is a human mannerism," Izuru chastised.

"Apologies, it was my proximity to the humans on Nemesis Tessera; it rubbed off on me."

"I forbid you to do it. The humans are a bad influence."

Hanging her head Keladi went quiet. Problems with her eye aside Keladi had surprising perception, Izuru neither saw nor felt any possible ambush. In the cavernous hangar, packed with troopships, Nightwing Interceptors and Eagle Bombers operations went on as normal. None of the machine-singers, pilots or aspect warriors gave them a second glance.

"Quickly now, Captain Swifteye awaits." Izuru took Keladi's arm and together they ducked under the wing of a bomber, its thirty metre wingspan plunged the deck underneath it into darkness. Both Eldar, slight shadows ghosted from one landing claw to the next. Avele, bemused on seeing Izuru and Keladi steal from shadow to shadow came down the ramp of the tubular, bulbous Solonae Skiff marked in the livery of Biel-Tan and hailed them loudly.

"Perhaps a little discretion next time?" Izuru strode up to him angrily, wiping her sweaty hands on her robes. "Lest our departure becomes public knowledge."

"Welcome aboard, fair maiden," Avele smiled, barely acknowledging Izuru, instead taking Keladi's hand and guiding her aboard.

"Izuru?" Keladi glanced over her shoulder as she was led away. "Are you coming?"

"Captain, permission to come aboard?"

"You may," the corsair said with a lazy wave of his hand. His attention was entirely on Keladi. "Come now, we must clothe you, make you comfortable."

Izuru, trailing behind unnoticed passed her palm over the rear hatch seal and waited for the hatch to close, she did not like the attention Avele was showing Keladi. Were he not falling over himself to help Izuru she would have turned her back on him at once, when business was done she would do that anyway and hopefully she and Keladi could return to their normal lives. Izuru bit her lip as the problem of Macha now presented itself. If only Eldrad Ulthran would return then this would all be sorted out. Everything bad that had happened since escaping Nemtess was of his doing.

 _Where did you go?_ Izuru rested her head on her arm and leant on the bulkhead, frustrated on being kept in the dark as to the nature of her mentor's departure. _Why did you go?_

The low whine of the ship's anti-gravity repulsors kicking in startled Izuru, she realised she was standing in the deserted cargo bay that was now in near-darkness. Groping as if blind she found the Solonae's main accessway and let it carry her upwards to the bridge. Avele sat nearest the curved slits of the viewport in the pilot's chair, one of them at least. Surrounding him on three sides were glowing blue tiles, holographic, each linking into the ship's systems. He was piloting a ship that required a minimum crew of three Izuru noted with some admiration; that took some skill. Sitting behind and to the right Keladi watched, fascinated, her eyes struggling to follow his subtle gestures and finger movements.

"I wondered where you had strayed to," Keladi said.

"Does the captain require assistance?" Izuru asked over the growing rumble of the ship's core.

"Not needed, you may relax as passengers," Avele, his fingers dancing shot a quick glance at Keladi. "Another time and under less pressing circumstances."

A flash on a console near Avele's left hand and a stern, questioning voice sounded, "Solonae skiff, you are attempting to initiate your launching sequence during a lockdown, advise you cease action and power down your engines, a security detachment will be boarding shortly."

"Macha, she has ordered a lockdown of the Arabulucu," Izuru muttered.

"Not enough time," Avele flashed his teeth. "For reasons of safety no vessel smaller than a corvette is permitted to travel the Webway, the chance of losing oneself is too great for the tunnels are treacherous, no route is ever the same and as such maps are useless; only by dead reckoning can a ship as small as this ever have a hope of seeing the beauty of the materium again."

"Solonae skiff-" the voice began again only for Avele to terminate it with a tiny flick of a spindly finger.

"Such a love for one's own voice, many a maiden will have had sweet nothings whispered to her in the early hours by such a lustful tongue no doubt. Prithee, ranger and banshee fasten thy harnesses and take hold of thy hindquarters," his fingers flashed this way and that.

Izuru nodded quickly at Keladi who was looking to her for instruction, "do as he commands."

The youth said something, a prayer in all likelihood and sat back, allowing the chair's restraints to conform to her body; Izuru followed suit. Outside the docking claws retracted into the hull and the skiff was shunted into the launch tube.

"Launching in…" Avele said nonchalantly beginning a slow countdown.

"Why the delay, please let us be away," Izuru, growing agitated but careful not to show it, said.

"Very well…"

The skiff shot forwards into the tight tube, the violent acceleration forcing Izuru and Keladi back into their seats, Avele's laughter could be heard over the rumble.

"Behold," Avele said when the noise had been replaced with silence.

"Never have I seen…" Keladi stared round-eyed at the immense golden tunnel that stretched away into infinity outside the skiff's viewport.

"Beauty in its natural form," Avele turned and looked at Keladi.

"I thought to look on it invited death."

"An old matron's tale."

Izuru cast off the restraints and rose from her seat, "captain, something is amiss."

Her worry was not unfounded, the skiff's tiles now showed a negative velocity. Something was hauling them back to the Arabulucu.

"Indeed, Macha will not let us go so easily but do not fear; I have foreseen it."

"What does he intend to do?" Keladi, fidgeting too much to sit still hovered by Izuru's shoulder and peered over Avele at the many flickering runes.

"Witness," Avele pointed at the many tiny vessels in the shadow of the great battleship.

"Eyes wander, where do you point?"

"Nowhere, watch now, the Arabulucu's psykers have us in their net, it is time to spread confusion amongst their ranks," Avele grinned.

Baffled Izuru watched and waited. Avele's solution came in the form of two fast moving spheres of light, torpedoes streaking out across the vast tunnel.

"Fear not, the ordnance was removed beforehand, they are harmless shells," Avele said with a satisfied expression. "Let us hope our fellow beings oblige."

"Their trajectory places the hull of that frigate directly in their path," Keladi cried.

"Impossible, my calculations were correct, there is nothing blocking their flight path," Avele glanced at her. "Even half-blind your eyesight is phenomenal."

Izuru laid a hand on Keladi's shoulder, "rest easy, Keladi, we are in good hands. Are we free of the psykers, captain?"

"Success, they did not account for Avele Swifteye," he said looking smug. "All available power to the drive, shields at minimum, let us put as many vessels between us and the Arabulucu as possible then a make a heading for my ship."

"No, the humans are coming with us, set a course for the Grace of The Mother, she is a medical frigate."

"Why, why the Grace?"

"Take us there and I will tell you why."

"A straight course to my flagship and we can be away from the fleet in a heartbeat, why help the humans?"

"The chief farseer's orders were to assist them in their fight against Chaos. There is a truce in place between us for now and I would not see it ruined by the meddling of the foreigner."

"Macha—"

"—is not my farseer, Eldrad Ulthran is whom I answer to and unless these eyes fall upon his dead body then he is _still_ my farseer!"

"Your loyalty is moving, Ranger Numerial, as is your honour. Macha will find a way to turn it against you."

Izuru gave no reply instead monitoring Avele carefully for any signs of treachery.

"Course corrected, we have a new vector," his eye strayed from the controls and watched Izuru out of the corner of his eye, "just as you requested."

"Gratitude, corsair."

"Avele please, to what end?"

"To what end?"

"Enlisting the humans, would you care to discuss your intent?"

"What they have is numbers. I intend to take advantage of these numbers."

"How so?"

"I am acquainted with the human general, his men own me their lives for rescuing them from Nemtess. It shall take but a little convincing to sway them to our cause."

"The humans would rather die than takes orders from us."

"That is why I do not intend to be the giver of the orders, the human general, when briefed, will do as I command."

"And that will be?"

"To help me seize the ship."

Avele's eyebrows shot upwards, a look of sly amusement flashed across his face, "that is a bold move, rash, possibly even reckless."

"The Grace holds the largest number of humans, if we control her it will free up enough space to take on the rest but only if they can be safely shuttled to her. You will take me to the Grace then carry on to your fleet, once among those you trust send a signal in Macha's name demanding the names of the ships carrying the prey."

"And then?" Avele had given her his undivided attention now.

"When knowledge has been gathered await my signal, receiving it will mean we have taken the Grace's bridge, then and only then must you ferry the humans aboard."

"But if they refuse? Not a single one will gladly follow an Eldar and a corsair at that!"

"I will invite the human general to relay a message to them through your communications, when they hear his voice they will understand."

"A shrewd prey might believe he is a prisoner."

"I will give the human general strict instructions on what to say."

"Yes," Avele nodded in acknowledgement. "Plant this in your ear, I can remain in contact with you," he pressed a tiny earbud into Izuru's hand. After a pause he added, "You care about them, don't you?"

Izuru ignored him and leant forwards eying the approaching frigate that was slowly filling the Solonae's viewport. "Steer for the fore hangar, the aft hangar holds the humans. Discretion is needed from here."

As Avele hailed the Grace, Keladi came forwards, "where would you have me stand?"

"Remain aboard with Captain Swifteye, it will be dangerous around the humans, they are unpredictable and possess a violent temperament."

Hurt by the dismissal Keladi said, "I know this, did I not stand with you on Nemtess in the company of humans then? Why may I not accompany you?"

Taking Keladi's arm, Izuru led her out of earshot of Avele. "You are not yet fully healed, little one. I would die if you were to be hurt again because of me."

"The Grace has granted us clearance…" Avele said loudly.

"Stay here, stay safe," Izuru hugged her and whispered, "May Jain Zar's fire keep you warm."

"May Asuryan shield you from harm," Keladi smiled tearfully.

Izuru's feet had scarcely touched the deck before Avele had the skiff back in the air and backing out of the hangar. Izuru watched the craft leave and imagined Keladi alone with the corsair; a lingering distrust of him burdened her. Under any different circumstances she would have agreed to Keladi's request and taken her along but the danger of the humans and the Grace's armed contingent was too great. In addition the wounds handicapping her made Izuru adamant; she was not to go. Now alone, Izuru drew her cape about her and assumed a haughty, aloof air just in time to be met by a hurried seer and bodyguard of four aspect warriors.

"My lady, we were not expecting the ambassador to the human race," the seer made the sign of Ulthwé then started when Izuru replied with the sign of Biel-Tan.

"A new chief farseer had arisen, the fleet now answers to Macha of the Craftworld Biel-Tan, she has sent the human ambassador to settle the matter of the humans polluting the fleet with their filth."

The seer looked startled for a moment then pleasantly surprised, "does her grace order the disposal of the prey?"

Izuru gestured at the seer to walk with her. "I am not here to issue judgement on the prey as of yet. Her grace is busy with council matters and has sent me to assess their number, their location as well as their armament and the threat they might pose to us."

"Hah, feeble human weaponry pales in comparison to our bright lances and lasblasters!"

"Nevertheless however insignificant they are still a threat and with the disappearance of Eldrad Ulthran the flag of truce has fallen, never to rise again."

"Warm tidings, t'was folly to bring the prey here, their disposal will put as all at ease."

"In good time, seer, I must speak with your seer captain firstly."

"Then allow me to escort you to the bridge."

Keeping up the arrogant demeanour Izuru smiled inwardly, she was enjoying the role she played. It was as if she had turned back a clock and was reliving her past life; her pre-Grendel, human-hating, self. One thing she found unsettling though was the ease of which she slipped back into her old ways, how effortless it was to reassume the cowl of the tyrant's subordinate. To further placate the lowly seer and quell any suspicion Izuru bombarded him constantly with prattle about the humans, the mistakes Eldrad Ulthran had made and the future reforms Macha would implement. Izuru did her best to be as loud and as unpleasant as possible, drawing attention from everyone she passed, her obnoxiousness turning eyes and ears in her direction for the purpose of doing the exact opposite. All the time her mouth was running off her eyes were taking in the layout of the frigate's decks, the placement of sentinels, and the number of portals between the hangars and the location of the communications and the all-important bridge.

* * *

Little Olen Azar, Gale's second cook, did not like working in the kitchen and never had. A lot of this was due to having to work for Gale whom Azar considered too authoritarian. Azar might ride his shift of KPs overhard, and was noted for this but secretly proud of it; this was because he couldn't make them work any other way. But Gale – Gale was in the habit of demanding an instantaneous and unquestionable obedience from his own cook force which not only seemed to imply he didn't trust their abilities, but also that he did not trust their motives, their good faith. Azar resented this. Also, for a long time now, he had felt Gale did not like him personally for some reason. Twice Gale had passed over him for promotion to first cook leaving the drunkard, unambitious Weld in that position. Both times Azar should have had the job and yet Gale had not said a word to him. Azar had not forgiven him for this either.

Like many others on his homeworld of Nereus Olen Azar had come into the Imperial Guard from a career of three years in the CCCs. The Civilian Conservation Corps was a programme for the millions of unmarried and unemployed young men between the ages of seventeen to twenty-eight. Besides employment, shelter, clothing, food, and a small monthly wage of fifty credits, forty of which had to be sent home to families, was granted. Its primary purpose was to improve physical condition and general morale, with secondary intent of preparing participants for service in the Imperial Guard, Navy, or Planetary Defence Force. Olen Azar had not cooks in the Cs – or anywhere else – beyond frying himself a couple of eggs once in a while. He had come into Gale's kitchen after six dull months as a rifle private because on regular duty – contrary to his expectations – he had remained lost in the shuffle and mass of OG ciphers. If he left the kitchen, he would lose his rating and his authority and fade back into the ranks. Azar had no intention of getting lost again so he stayed in the kitchen. But he did not have to like it. Because he did not like kitchen duty and because on Nemtess cooks ad been naturally exempt from the menial duties, Azar had taken to wandering around the hangar whenever Gale had not needed him to heat up the contents of rat packs on the two tiny stoves they had saved from Nemtess. On one such wander Azar had met the Stickie.

Dismissed by Gale who had Weld and Scurm trying and failing to cook dehydrated potatoes on an iron platter that rested on a little blue flame, Azar stamped off. Furious at Gale for coldly shooing him away Azar stopped to witness a fight breaking out between a gang of angry privates and a single individual who wore the wings of a combat pilot on the shoulder of his flight suit. Azar, like many who had been stuck on the ground, shared the general resentment of the Navy and staunchly agreed that they should have done more to defend the beleaguered divisions in the retreat to Karamaya instead of putting up only a token resistance far from the frontlines before bugging out of the system. By the aggressive treatment of the lone pilot it seemed the opinion that the Navy fliers were a bunch of cowards still stuck.

Gathering with others in a circle with other, Azar looked on as the pilot was roughed up by the disgruntled troopers, he did not put up any real struggle and appeared to want to curl up on the deck in a ball. Just when the 'fight' began to get violent a short corporal backed up by a tall, dark, private and an absolute monster of a man with a bushy beard broke through the circle. Azar saw the corporal, surprisingly youthful for his two stripes say something to the larger men who promptly took apart the five toughs with laughable ease. The sight of the stripes on the little man's arm made Azar scowl, he was twenty-two and the corporal, a full two jumps above him on the ladder could not have even been twenty. Azar disliked the jumped-up lad immediately, imagining him a favourite of a queer NCO who, like with many non-coms on deployment, kept boyfriends. The rampant homosexuality that ran through the ranks of the Nerian divisions before their posting had been the worst kept secret on the planet. Though officially denied at all levels the number of unemployed and broke eighteen and nineteen year olds who had been paid for sexual favours by older civilians were immense. Azar had never stooped so low, and never intended to. The boyish-faced corporal that had just rescued the pilot from a bunch of fives was a picture example of one such cock-swallower; Azar was certain. What else Azar noted was his rank, corporal was not a rank used very much, if at all by grunts, instead it was a rank more befitting a company clerk, a would-be lifer. The position of clerk was a firm placement with little prospect of promotion allowing the queer non-com to keep him close by. Azar was dead certain the corporal was some toy of a rear-echelon supply sergeant; dead certain.

With the participants removed from the fight, the circle of men dissolved. Little order was being kept with a few staff officers, nearly all of the platoon and company commanders of 1 Neria had been killed, keeping away from the other ranks. Azar, disappointed the pilot had come off so lightly, went for a wander, ending up a short distance from the barrier portal where those fascinated by the allure of the void outside congregated in little and larger groups. The bizarre colour of the 'tunnel' the ships were now in, a bright golden yellow was completely different from the general perception of what the Warp looked like. Azar and everyone else could look at it without falling afoul of its daemonic sorcery too. There was something inherently off about that.

Kneeling, Azar whispered a prayer to the Emperor to shield him from the taint of the Warp, followed by a quick confession. He was not a heretic for he was a devout imperial and loved the Emperor and the Imperium dearly, and was eager, more than eager to kill and later die for it, but he would not die without doing something significant first. If there was one thing Olen Azar feared, it was that he would die pointlessly, face-down, and forgotten. He just had to grab that promotion first and when he did he could finally rise above his lowly station, maybe even becoming mess sergeant one day. Sergeant Azar; he liked that.

" _The Emperor protects_ ," he whispered, rising from his knees and into the face of a cloaked and hooded Stickie.

Its face in deep shadow, lit only by a pair of daemonic glowing eyes, the Stickie towered high above the petrified Azar. His eyes were exactly level with its chin. So surprised he was, Azar did not even think to cry out or go for the knife he had hanging from his waist, he just froze. In a heartbeat the Stickie's hand shot out and grabbed ahold of Azar's ear and twisting it around and nearly lifting him off of his feet. "Your general, bring him here. This xeno would have words with him," the Stickie female purred.

His face contorted in pain, Azar nodded hastily, "mmm."

"With haste!" the Stickie added, letting Azar go and stepping back into the shadows.

White-faced and clutching his reddened ear, Azar scurried away. He had managed not to wet himself. It was just as well, he could not have lived with the embarrassment of others seeing the stain on his trousers. What was worse were the cold, bony fingers that had closed around his ear. He had been touched by a xeno, he was a filthy heretic now undeserving of the sergeancy he craved.

"You alright there, pal?" The medic, Ral Bleak, fell in his path. "You seen a bloody ghost or something?"

"Nah," Azar shook his head earnestly.

"What's happened to your ear?"

"Nothin', get lost," Azar pushed past Ral.

"Someone dangled you by it?" Ral persisted.

"Nah, no-one," Azar stood up on his tiptoes and feverishly searched around for anyone wearing insignia.

"Looking for someone?"

"Officers…"

"Erm, why?"

"Come on, help me look."

Azar reluctantly allowed the medic to help him find an officer and gave him the slip when they did. The close shave with the Stickie had convinced him if he did not go with its wishes he would be killed, but he was already a heretic so why did it matter?

"S'cuse me, sir," Azar saluted a sitting, ill-looking captain from first battalion whose name he did not know. He was the lowest ranking officer in the O group's midst and who Azar considered to be the most approachable.

"What is it, private?" the captain turned his grey face and equally grey eyes up to regard him, returning the salute with a vague attempt of one.

"Sir, a Stickie wants to talk to Brigadier Vorbeck, sir," Azar said quietly.

"Stickie…?" The captain struggled to his feet. "Who?"

"Don't know, sir, it was female."

"Major," the captain called to a staff major Azar vaguely recognised from parades.

"Captain?" the major frowned at Azar's presence. "What does the private want?"

"The private states a Stickie wants to talk to the brigadier," the captain said.

"You were approached by a Stickie who asked for the brigadier directly, private?" the major asked.

"Yes, sir, the Stickie said it wanted to speak with the general personally."

"Wait," the major left Azar and the captain and went over to a pair of senior officers, both full colonels.

"You'll keep this to yourself, private," the captain said.

"Yes, sir," Azar muttered, he had no intention of letting slip that he had been touched by a Stickie; he would be executed for heresy otherwise.

"Sir, this was the private that was in contact with the Stickie," the major, followed by a colonel, who was followed by Brigadier Vorbeck, indicated Azar. "Private…?"

"Private Azar, sir, second cook, sir" Azar saluted again.

"Private Azar," Vorbeck returned it and added, "at ease. Where is the Stickie?"

"Sir, about over by the big shield, behind them big crates in the shadows," Azar was only too willing to spill the details. He hoped they could kill the Stickie and forget about it.

"Second cook you say? Sergeant Gale's unit was it?"

"Yes, sir, H Company, 2 Neria," the colonel replied.

"Have words with the company's OC, make Private Azar first cook."

"Sir," the colonel nodded.

 _First cook,_ Azar was tickled pink.

"Carry on, private," Vorbeck nodded curtly.

"Dismissed," the major added.

Azar saluted, performed a perfect about-face, and marched off.

 _Now, Stickie, what is it you want?_ Emil Vorbeck wondered.

"Brigadier," Colonel Zandyke offered him his laspistol, "in case of treachery."

"Not necessary, colonel, but thank you anyway."

"Very well, brigadier."

"I will meet with the Stickie alone, see to it no one interferes."

"Yes, brigadier, call us if you need us."

Vorbeck picked his way around groups of men, every now and again asking little questions, encouraging them and passing out congratulations for their efforts on Nemtess. Although outwardly calm and stoic, inside he was wracked up with guilt at seeing these men, many boys in their teens, aged by war, and for each face he saw, ten or twenty more had been left behind on Nemtess, either as a casualty or simply missing.

 _What a waste of human life. We left Nemtess exactly as we found it, a desolate wasteland only now it's got a few more bodies lying on it; all this for what?_

"General," a xeno voice came from the shadows.

"Hurry, Stickie, I have little time left for your kind," Vorbeck said coldly. "Why don't you speak to me face to face."

"Very well," the hooded Stickie came into view.

"You," Vorbeck recognised the faintly glowing eyes, and the odd condition of Stickie's right eye, the pupil of which was rather more dilated than the other.

"General, I bring dark tidings…"

Folding his arms, Vorbeck listened to the Stickie's story.

"Izuru Numerial is it?" He said after hearing her out.

"Friend and student of Eldrad Ulthran, and none of Macha's," Izuru said.

"So this new leader you have, Macha, she wants to kill us very badly?" Vorbeck asked dubiously.

"You and all your men, I too."

"I am putting my trust in a Stickie. If my superiors could see me now they would terminate my command on the spot, and everyone under my command."

"You trusted me on Nemtess."

"When your back is to the wall you'll take any chance you can get."

"Then perhaps a degree of trust is needed again. It is both our lives on the line here, general, not only yours. I have just as much reason to oppose Macha as you. She hates me like a human, which I am in part, now once more let the banners of the human race and the Craftworld Eldar fly together."

"Is there any other way?"

"None that prevent your complete extermination."

"Rather limits options, doesn't it," Vorbeck smiled grimly. "Alright, what is it you propose?"

"General," Izuru's eyes gleamed, "you, your men and I are going to take this ship."

Leo Wind's unexpected tussle with a gang from 2 Neria quickly became a widely-spoken about topic, and with the news that a combat pilot who'd flown at Nemtess was aboard attitudes quickly turned against the Navy once more.

"Just tell us when ye need to shit, Navy, we'll set up a perimeter 'round ye," I said dryly.

"Bet you feel real special now, what with all the attention," Aimo, Molke's carbine still in his hands, grinned.

"Erm, so what's with all the hate for the Navy, did I miss something?" Molke, barehanded, looked between Aimo and I questioningly.

"No, Molke," Aimo said flatly. I straight up ignored him.

"The cook, what's his name, Aimo?"

"Uhh, dunno, heard him called Breezy. I think he's from second battalion, not one of us."

"Anyone else from first battalion here?"

"Yeah lots, just most of 'em are A, B, or D Company, we got off the worst."

"Hmph."

"Any of you noticed what we're flying through now, cause it don't look like space…" Molke spoke.

"Quiet, little boy," I grunted.

"You ain't so big yourself—"

"Molke, be quiet," Aimo stepped in, steering the NIG away and sitting him down further away from us. "Stay there and don't say anything."

With Molke out of earshot Aimo sat by my shoulder, "cut him some slack."

"Nothin' doin'," I shot back. "He's gotta learn the hard way, and I'm not leading him around by his baby prick, little NIG like that's prob'ly gonna get his legs blown off first time out so why bother takin' him in?"

"It's just not right riding on him so hard."

"Maybe, but I'm gonna keep ridin' on him till he figures out just how worthless he is. If he pulls through, gets some trigger time, a few confirmed kills, maybe he might be someone but till then; he's worthless."

Ever since waking up in the cold, unfamiliar confines of the alien ship I'd had this harsh and cynical outlook on everything, living or otherwise, with weariness both in body and audible in my voice when I spoke which wasn't as much as I had before Nemtess. The only time I raised my voice above its normal volume was during my blowout, the catalyst of it being the naïve, inquisitive Molke who wore the dumb, awestruck expression of a wetnose. There had been no question back then, I was entirely justified with losing my temper with the NIG, but now, brooding on it I felt the smallest hint of regret at turning it on everyone else. However uncaring and callous a person I was it put me in rather a sorry mood. I wanted to apologise but genuinely struggled to come up with the right words. In the end I settle on muttering in a barely audible tone to Aimo.

"Oi, ye not worthless, Aimo, you were there wi' me…" I broke off, my voice cracking.

"Yeah," Aimo gripped my wrist.

"You tell 'em all they're not worthless," I gripped Aimo's wrist in return.

"Yeah."

"Not Molke."

"Uh?" Aimo stared.

"Not Molke," I shook my head vigorously. "Not Molke, he gotta earn it first."

"Alright, I'll tell 'em."

Though Molke himself I swiftly forgot about, his question about the strange, glowing, golden void that replaced the pinkish-violet swirl of the Eye of Terror remained. The general idea of the Warp was a violent swirl of purple in which unnamed terrors dwelt, if that perception was correct then where where we? It was another unanswered question to be added to an infinitely long list that our officers could not answer and the Stickies would not for obvious reasons. Time also did not really exist where we were and any man who had the luxury of a chronometer on his wrist would find it quite useless as it was still set to Nemtess standard.

Later the unnamed major who had accompanied Brigadier Vorbeck came round, apparently he sought after someone, what he said to us next came as a complete surprise.

"I'm looking for fire-team and section leaders, NCO grade – you, corporal," he snapped his fingers at me.

"Better go with him, mate," Aimo nudged me.

"Sir," Cyrano had awoken. "Sotnik Cyrano Semirechye, I commanded a host of the 3rd Atreides Cavalry Brigade."

"You what?" the major glared.

"Sotnik has rank equivalent of lieutenant first rank."

"Non-commissioned officers only, come with me all the same."

"Come on, Larn," Cyrano helped me to my feet. "What does this major of infantry want?"

"Dunno, some noncoms for something."

"Sotnik Semirechye," the major beckoned over his shoulder with a finger for Cyrano to walk alongside him. What was said next did not reach my ears.

Squatting or sitting in a large group in front of Brigadier Vorbeck and two colonels were non-commissioned officers: four sergeants, a handful of corporals, and the majority lance corporals. It was a briefing but not one of us knew as yet what for. Brigadier Vorbeck, not one to beat about the bush, made it clear in his first sentence what our situation was with the Stickies.

"I have been informed by a trusted source that the Stickies in the fleet plan on killing us, all that is stopping them are the casualties this ship holds, they, rather compassionately, will not fire on their own kind which we will exploit to the fullest. Colonel Zandyke, please." Vorbeck gestured to one of the colonels beside him who had in his hands a large sheet of paper.

Colonel Zandyke unrolled it to reveal a large, hand-drawn map. Laying it on the floor in front of us he laid a finger on the aft section, "the main aft hangar, where we are, this is also the lowest level of the ship, there's nothing to our aft besides the engines. Fore are the med bays, they extend all the way to the bows. There are five decks above us, each one with access to the fore and aft sections of the frigate. Deck one, crew quarters and storage. There is also a small security contingent of ten that patrol in teams of two. Deck two, the same besides engineering and life support in the stern. Deck three, the gun deck, being a hospital ship it's light on armament and the crews do not carry weapons. Deck four is communications so securing them is absolutely vital. Deck five is the bridge, slightly tighter security at the portals leading up to them but that won't prove too difficult to overpower with a surprise assault. Make sure you study this map and get a good mental layout of the frigate, it's basic but very important knowledge so get a handle on it."

"Thank you, colonel," Brigadier Vorbeck took over. "This operation favours stealth and subtlety and I must express the importance that there is to be no unnecessary killing as it is not our intention to kill all aboard but to take them hostage, in case we cannot get our friends who are elsewhere in the fleet back we can use the Stickies as a trade. However if fired upon you may respond with the appropriate force, do not hold back. If the Stickies will not go down without a fight I expect you to shoot them dead or, if presented with other options, kick their fucking teeth in."

That sent a ripple of amusement through the NCOs with some snorts here and there. I had begun to like the old man, he had a good understanding of how non-coms worked and could think and swear like a ranker.

"I know you're all tired and hungry, us officers are too, and I know you're itching to get back at the enemy for Nemtess. All I ask is that you remember who our real enemy is right now, the Perfs, be as aggressive as possible towards the Stickies but save the killing for the Perfs – _they_ put you where you are right now and they _will_ pay; just not today."

Colonel Zandyke took this as a cue, "mission layout is as follows: ten man sections led by corporals. Sergeants, you organise the parties. Major Lomas will be in overall command."

"Sir," Major Lomas, grim-faced, stepped forwards. "Sergeants, organise your corporals and lance's into section and assistant section leaders, they can pick the men to fill the sections out. Make sure you arm yourselves and scrounge ammunition where you can. Keep your safeties off but do not put a round in the chamber!"

Surprised at the in-depth tactical planning I awaited my turn to be sorted out by the great green machine wondering just what had pushed Brigadier Vorbeck to organise a take-over of the ship. He had to have had inside help to obtain such detailed gen, but who had helped him?

When the time came for my section to be organised I received a wiry buck lance named Katecka.

"Kat," he shook my hand. "3 Platoon, G Company, 2 Neria."

"Larn, 2-C-1."

With us sorted, a sergeant told us to find some volunteers. Cyrano, idle nearby, jumped at the chance.

"No officers," I shrugged. "Sorry."

Cyrano's downcast face said everything.

"Can't he help us find some volunteers?" Kat suggested. "No-one's stopping us from doing that."

"Eh, fine."

"Outstanding, I like this man!" Cyrano laughed. Falling in behind us he drummed his hand on his thigh, humming as he did so.

The first volunteers we found came from an unlikely source in that they were cooks. The first, the mess sergeant nicknamed Breezy was all too eager to join. "Well I'll demote myself right away," his round face split into a grin. "Weld, if you ain't comin' you can have the kitchen," he said to a subordinate.

"I gotta go too, sarn't," another cook, short and mean-faced stuck a hand up.

"Azar, right," Breezy seemed to be on the verge of saying something to him, a refusal perhaps, before relenting. "I'm Gale, that's Azar," he jerked his thumb at the little cook.

I nodded, "got yer rifles?"

"Better," Gale hoisted two Lecta automatic carbines up by their canvas slings.

"What's all the artillery for?" Kat chortled, surprised at how well-armed the cooks were.

"Nothin' we never even saw the Perfs – only their air – thought maybe now we can dish out some payback."

"Kill a xeno for the Emperor," Azar jerked back his Lecta's cocking handle, licking his lips hungrily.

"Nah, no killing, orders are no killing if it can be avoided," I said.

"Says who?" Azar sneered.

"Says Brigadier Vorbeck, save it for the Perfs, for some reason we're getting all cosy in bed with the Stickies now; bloody mad if ye ask me."

That got a dark look from Azar. Gale on the other hand shook his head indifferently and said, "Long as it keeps us from the cage."

Our next brace of volunteers were Aimo, Molke, and Leo Wind. Aimo I accepted with no reserve, Leo Wind, despite his flyer status was very vocal on how he wished to pay us back for saving him from the lynch mob and quite enthusiastic. Molke I wanted to dismiss immediately, Aimo however came to the lads' defence citing there was no better way to earn experience than on the job watching those who had it. I agreed with some reluctance. The last volunteer had not actually volunteered rather I plucked him up before another section got ahold of him, it was the medic who had bothered us before, his name was Ral Bleak.

"I don't know why you're dragging me along, I've got no weapon and no gear, the most I can do is keep you company if you get hit and bleed out," he protested when I dragged him into our midst.

"Hear that, lads, he'll give you cuddle before you die," Aimo thumped Ral in the shoulder.

"You must have something in here…" Leo's fingers pried around the contents of Ral's satchel. "Hmm, shaving cream," he pulled out one such tube.

"Ey!" Ral slapped Leo's hands until he withdrew them. "If you must know I've got a pair of tweezers and one bandage – one! And I'm not gonna use it on anyone but myself."

"Selfish," Aimo muttered.

"Then who's going to be around to give you a cuddle when you die?"

"Alright, knock it off," I snapped. "Put the medic back together and gear up."

The six volunteers in the ad-hoc section quietened down and listened to the plan. Over and over it would be told by the corporals and lance corporals that had heard it from the sergeants and the officers all throughout the hangar. Such a buzz of activity could not go unnoticed forever I remarked, indeed it looked like the plan had sunk before it even had a chance to take off when a tubular, bulbous ship slipped through the shield, scattering those in its path before coming to rest on its curved landing struts and disgorging Stickies in black and red armour. The commotion and ensuing stand-off between the two armed parties looked to be escalating rapidly that was until the arrival of Brigadier Vorbeck and his staff who, to the amazement of everybody, were greeted courteously by a Stickie who had removed his helmet and slung his lasblaster as a sign of truce. It scarcely seemed real that an enemy alien was in discussion with the brigadier but with all the odd things that had happened this was nothing new. Eventually the Stickie's presence was given to be for our benefit as there was no way to reach the other parts of the ship unless travelling through the four portals that connected it with hangar; all inaccessible to humans. It could work but only if in physical contact with a Stickie, this predictably was met with a great deal of friction, and not just in my section.

Feeling the exhaustion start to overtake me once again I let Kat and Aimo otherwise do the convincing, cajoling, and threatening. Cyrano had no such qualms and stood by me loyally. "Do you have a weapon?" he asked, in his own hand was a long-barrelled cavalry laspistol.

"Nah," I rubbed my bare, greasy hair, reminding myself that I had a lack of both body and head protection and was, not to mention, weaponless and without belt kit. "Damn shame 'bout my pistol _,_ " I said quietly enough to not be overheard.

"Uh?" Cyrano had heard something. I just looked away and gave no reply. Step-off came without cries or whistles, men started to move in one direction around us so we moved too. A few prayers were whispered, someone tried cracking a joke which no one found funny, one man even tried to sell his chrono right before he was passed through a portal by one of the Stickies.

"Good luck, lads, the Emperor protects each and every one of you, just like he did on Nemtess," Brigadier Vorbeck was there passing words of encouragement to the four lines that slowly grew shorter and shorter as more and more disappeared into the unknown.

Bringing up the rear of the section I was one of the very last through the rightmost portal. I did not look the brigadier's way despite sensing his gaze, neither did I pay the Stickie that towered over me any attention when his hand rested on my shoulder and pushed me into the light. The human that was Arvin James Larn was gone, a cold, uncompromising killer that operated on instinct and without thought was there in his place when he appeared at a corridor junction in near-total darkness.

The lack of presence of my section unnerved me enough for the pre-Nemtess, frightened, olive grey speck of a runt to return. Standing before three paths lit only by deep red lighting that flashed sporadically, I began to remember things, memories both recent and from long ago. The moment brought on by the flashing lights made my eyes water, I covered them hoping it would block the light out and stave off the flashes of past events, many of which I did not want to relive.

" _Larn_ ," a voice whispered.

" _No_ ," I recognised the voice and uncovered my eyes. At the end of the corridor before it swept away around a corner a tall shadow stood shrouded in cloak and hood watching me. The fear that took hold was quite different to what I had felt before. Here it was a cold, creeping, spine-chilling terror that told me I could not escape this any longer, that it was inevitable. Death had finally come for me. All this time I thought she had been my ever-present guardian looking out for me, caring for me, but she had been death in disguise all along; and death had the final word.

The corridor stretched further and further away from me but death only came closer, her cloak streaming behind, her golden eyes two bright lights boring into my soul. In her right hand was a weapon which she slowly raised to point at me. Nearer and nearer she moved until a scant ten paces separated us. Clenching and unclenching my fists I stared death down, refusing to back away or grovel.

"Come on then, you scum, put it right between my eyes," I spat, my voice quivering. "Bloody do it."

The eyes never once blinked or moved. Death was still and silent, the pistol in her hand rock-steady.

"I'm going home, you ain't stopping me," I said, shutting my eyes, preparing for the flash. "I'm going home."

"You are not."

I let out a tiny gasp. My eyes snapped open to see 'death' lower her hood.

"You're dead, you can't be real," I stepped back in alarm, confused at the now-reversed pistol being offered to me.

"Take it," Izuru Numerial said. "Your men need you."

"Izuru…" I reached out, clasped the wooden butt and slowly took it. "How did you…?" Dumbstruck I felt the worn metal of the Moses I thought stolen underneath my fingers; _impossible_.

The gleaming eyes set in the scarred face said it all, "impossible, yet here we stand."

"You're not real," I said in a tiny voice, fearful of the being before me.

"Real?" Izuru reached forwards and brushed my cheek with her hand. "Does reality feel cold and hard to you?"

I winced at the chillness, "Izuru I, I think I killed someone, one of your people—"

"No, no," Izuru shook her head, a look of pity on her face. "You did not. You could not be blamed for it."

"Then why…" I choked, forcing myself to swallow. "Why d'you bring me back? What would a stickie gain in saving someone as worthless as me?"

"Your men need you," Izuru pointed to the righthand corridor. "Take that path, you will find they are not far away, go now."

"What 'bout you?" I asked, easing the Moses' slide back and peering into the chamber.

"At times I will be nearby, you will not know where you will not know when; your men are your concern now. May Asuryan shield you from harm, I cannot. Farewell."

Drawing her hood up Izuru melted away into the darkness. I took the Moses in both hands and hurried away after the others, confused and brimming with questions that for now would have to go unanswered.


	6. Chapter 5

**The Grace of The Mother, The Webway**

Eyes protesting at the sporadic flashing I hurried along the tightly winding corridor blinking in the near-total darkness, hoping, praying – something I had not done since before Nemtess – my friends weren't far away. My bewildered brain struggled to comprehend the apparition it had just witnessed, unsure whether or not the female Stickie I thought I knew was real, or for that matter any of what I saw now was real as my mind was in such a disoriented state. In the deep recesses every shadow now hid a faceless Stickie wearing the blackest armour and armed with weapons intended for my destruction. Skirting the edges I felt my light start to fade slowly, torturously, in a mocking manner. A distant booming, a single shot coming from far away reached my ears, the sound freezing me to the spot. It was then followed in quick succession by another; the echo seemed to last forever.

"Who the hell just went weapons free?" a harsh voice just around the corner whispered loudly.

"Sounds like two rounds fired."

"Yeah, we're not all REMFs, we can count," someone, possibly that mean-eyed little cook Azar said.

"Azar, shush! Bloody decock that weapon too," Gale hissed.

There was a sharp metallic clicking and a grunt of annoyance from Azar.

"Right enough waiting. Everyone's ahead of us, if Larn was coming he'd be here by now, let's go," Kat whispered urgently.

"Oi, I'm here!" I raised both hands as I rounded the sharp bend. The other seven in the section were crouched down and hugging the concave bulkhead with their weapons trained in all directions.

"Whoa!" Molke, nearest me, yelped as I came out of the darkness. I'm sure had Aimo let him keep his carbine he would have shot me then, it came as relief to see that he was unarmed.

"S'alright, it's Larn," I held my hands up, keeping my weapon pointed at the ceiling.

"Larn, is that your name?" Ral Bleak also unarmed but nowhere near as jumpy as Molke was smiled and waved at me to come over. "You get lost back there?"

"Somethin' like that, yeah," I said vaguely.

"Azar," Gale motioned the cook to lift the muzzle of his Lecta up for me to pass by. "Larn, huh."

"Yeah."

"C'mon, Larn, we're late stepping off," Aimo, on point with Kat, called.

"Larn, where the hell were you?" Kat jabbed a finger at me accusingly, "Where the hell were you? We were waiting around ten minutes!"

"Got lost, came out and it was dark, had to find my bearings," I shrugged, unwilling to get into a verbal brawl with him.

"Where d'you get the popgun from?"

"Corp, let's just go," Aimo gestured with the barrel of his carbine. "Wasting time here."

"Got it off the mug who stole it from me," I said evenly which was of course true.

"Well then…" Kat indicated that I was to take his place on point. "You can be pointman then."

"And you be tail-end."

"Fine, this thing's no good for room-to-room anyway," Kat hefted his bulky IM rifle and fell back to the rear with Molke and Ral.

"That a Moses? Didn't think anyone still used them," Aimo remarked with some curiosity.

"Paul Meinerz had it. He left it for me."

"1 Platoon's CO?"

"Yeah," I patted him on the shoulder and pointed forwards, "let's move."

Although on unfamiliar ground I felt a tingle of excitement leading the section from the point and the return of my confidence somewhat. The Stickie I now pushed away from the forefront of my mind, fixing it instead on our current objective, priority, and the lives of the seven others behind me, secondary, but still a concern.

"Wonder how the other sections are getting on," Aimo muttered behind me after a short stretch of total silence. As if echoing his words another there was another boom, louder and much closer this time.

"Shit it, whole bloody ship's gonna have heard that," a gruff voice cried from not far away.

"Hm, you're right there," Aimo said. The speaker was a corporal whose men had herded a large group of about fifteen Stickies against the bulkhead and made them clasp their hands behind their backs.

"Coming around!" I called out at the corner.

"Sound off!" hearing me the corporal aimed an LAR in our direction.

"Larn, 2-C-1, and section," I replied, waving a hand.

"228?"

"Yeah."

"Come on in, you're the last section through here, everything behind you's clear."

"Cheers, pal," I whistled at the others to follow me.

The corporal took me aside for a word when we had consolidated. "Right, be aware most of the Stickies like these prisoners are non-combatants. Make sure your section gets a clear handle on what they look like so they can differentiate them from the combatants."

"Okay – you hear those shots just now?"

"Three rounds so far, target unknown."

"Right."

"You know where you're going?"

"S'pose following the shooting might help."

"If you're not sure there are a couple of Stickies that'll act as guides for sections," the corporal gestured to someone I couldn't see. "Bit irregular I know but it's a funny situation we're in at the moment."

"We'll be alright, corp."

"Better take one just to be on the safe side," then he added in a quieter tone, "gets 'em out of our hair."

Our Stickie guide wore startlingly similar dress to the Void Dragon corsairs, so similar I did a double take when first seeing it – I assumed it was male, it was difficult to tell with them – and self-consciously touched the Moses' trigger before stopping myself, perturbed at my lack of self-control. The Stickie's silence too did not help matters as it preferred to communicate via very subtle gestures and hand-signals, unsettling for all of us judging by the infrequent mutterings that came from behind; mainly I think from Azar.

The entirety of the deck we were on had been secured by the time the section caught up with the main body. It was unclear who had fired the shots, but they had not been warnings. Three bodies, each with gunshot wounds to the chest had been bundled in a corner on top of one another like sacks of potatoes.

"Were they trying to escape?" Aimo asked a tired lance corporal who was in charge of a detail standing guard over twenty Stickies that had been made to sit on the deck. "Did they open fire on you?"

"Don't know," the lance, his rifle tucked under his arm, grunted in reply. "Another section handed them over to us."

"Were they armed?" Molke paled at the blood splatter across the bulkhead near where the bodies were. It showed up a dark wet stain and shone in the dim light.

"Don't know."

"Any concealed weapons?" I asked.

"Don't know."

"Why don't we move those bodies out of sight?" Aimo suggested. A few of the Stickies were visibly in distress and crying at seeing their friends callously piled on top of each other.

"Not our problem," I slapped the tired lance jack on the shoulder and gave the signal to move out.

More gunshots, this time from the deck above, travelled down to our ears. _Let the others pick up the slack_ , I thought, _I'm not dying on some Stickie tub, I've done my bit, I have to get home now._ Our guide did not seem too bothered by our ponderous pace either, maybe he was having similar thoughts. _He might have children, might have a wife, parents, or maybe he just wants to go home._ The Stickie in question remained tight-lipped and as irritatingly subtle as ever, vaguely indicating the direction we were supposed to go with nary a word of advice. I was on the verge of asking him aloud if he spoke Gothic when we came upon a small rear-guard of two privates, both looked shaken and quite ill at ease but relieved at our appearance.

"They leave you here too?" I waved to one.

"Yeah, corporal," the slightly older of the pair returned the gesture.

"Any trouble?"

The private glanced at his colleague nervously, "well this deck's s'posed to be clear right, but we've been hearing noises…"

"Footsteps and the like," his mate said.

"Cept it's inside the walls."

"Like the ship don't want us."

" Nothing but the medbays ahead. You seen anything at all?" I asked.

"Not since the last section came through here 'bout ten minutes ago."

"You guarding something here then?"

"Yeah, corp, this accessway will take you up to the next deck."

"Where?" I searched around expecting to see a lift or a flight of stairs that led upwards.

"N-no, it's this tube here, in here," the private nodded at a narrow tubular space set in the bulkhead. "Just step in there it'll whoosh you up."

"Hmph, looks like the Stickies don't believe in stairs," Aimo grimaced.

"Or proper lighting arrangements," Leo added.

"Oh this flickering lighting's a defence mechanism, they know we're coming," the private said. "They don't see like we do so this isn't a problem for 'em. They've known it since the first man went through the portal, triggered all sortsa alarms, can't think which I prefer, down here in the dark or up there gettin' shot at."

"How's he know all this about the Stickies?" Gale voiced aloud.

"Bunch of Stickie traitors are helpin' us just like the one you've got. I've only heard one of 'em speak at all, I swear they're all bloody mute or something. This one was jabbering away to the PWs they got back there in Stickie lingo, they didn't half like that I can tell you. Anyway this Stickie, she's talkin' to Major Lomas, I overheard some bits that's all."

"She?" Leo Wind's ears pricked up. "Aimo, you hearing this?"

"Uh? Sorry, not listening."

"Good to know, stay frosty" I grinned without humour and stepped into the half-open tube, emulating the Stickie who had been lifted upwards and out of sight. A curious lightness gripped my body as it floated upwards, the sensation pleasant and soothing. Barely a second passed before gravity returned and my feet were on firm ground again. Two corridors identical to those on the lower deck ran away in opposite directions.

"Alright?" a sentry posted at a nearby junction called.

"Yeah, what's the word?" I hastened to a squad of four spread out in pairs covering both ways.

A private hunched over a Rekyl .30 calibre stubber replied, "They're still mopping up this deck down the other end. Some Stickies were looking for a fight. We may have taken a casualty, can't be certain."

"Stickie casualties?"

"None this end."

"Right," I turned and called to Ral, "Ral! Stick on Aimo's tail, we might need you to cuddle someone."

"Anyone hit?" Ral looked alarmed.

"Dunno, possibly one."

While we waited for the rest of section to assemble I listened to the cracks of rifles, their reports multiplied ten-fold by the tight confines of the ship sounding closer to artillery fire than anything else. I couldn't imagine what it was like on the ears. The others' reactions from riding the Stickie anti-gravity lift verged from surprised, Gale and Kat, to gleeful, Leo, to scowling, Azar. Molke said nothing but looked like he had enjoyed it but felt guilty about doing so.

"Better hustle, you'll miss all the fun otherwise," someone called after us.

"Yeah, come on, let's move up, get in the fight," Aimo urged.

"Nah ain't the right time," I shook my head firmly. "I don't want to accidently slot a Stickie that weren't armed, I'll fight the Perfs but I ain't gonna fight Stickies; done that already."

"Yeah, I know. They'd call you coward for that but… you're not a coward, you're just…"

"Tired," I finished it for him.

"We're all tired."

"Shouldn't be fighting the Stickies, the real enemy's out there, this is just a squabble."

"Yeah, let someone else take the strain, 'specially after Nemtess. You know if you want to talk about it, I'm here…"

I shot a quietly intense look over my shoulder at him, "No."

"Alright, I got your back."

"So did Martti."

Aimo, understanding, piped down from there on. The mere mention of Martti's name tied my stomach into knots with the guilt of not being there for him when he took on real estate weighing me down even further. What was it I had said to him, my final words? _You won't hear another word out of me_ , that and the pictures he had given me to look at before I went to sleep which I had mistaken in my delirium for home. I was unquestionably dying then, but what's more I had accepted it, wanted it for it was a way out, a way home only someone had cruelly yanked me back from it.

Presently we found our route barred by two sections stacked up at a junction on both sides with neither appearing willing to venture down the arrow-straight corridor. A few shell-casings lay on the deck and the whiff of gunsmoke hung in the air. A medic was tying a bandage around the upper arm of a casualty, the latter, bareheaded was gritting his teeth in pain.

"Corporal, can I…?" Ral looked to me for permission to fall out.

"Yeah, go on."

"Who are you?" a sergeant, the ranking NCO present apparently, held up a clenched fist, signalling us to stop when he spotted the Stickie leading us.

"Right no further, lads," I said.

"Corporal, a gang of armed Stickies have barricaded themselves in crew quarters down that corridor. They've got that area covered."

"They've got that corridor covered?"

"Yes, that entire open space, we tried to rush them but it's too open, Major Lomas sent a section out to find a flank, we're holding here until then."

"Any casualties?"

"One wounded no dead."

"Any…" I stumbled, hearing more shooting on the next deck. "Deck Two?"

"Yes, Major Lomas and the main force moved up there some time ago, they could use another section."

"Yes, sarn't, what's the nearest way up to Deck Two?"

"Quickest is through the Stickie's fire zone. We could give you cover or you could find another way around, what do you want to do?"

"If you're offerin', sarn't," I shrugged, "we'll take it."

"Roger – corporal!" the sergeant called softly to the other section leader across the way. "Stand by to give cover, only fire if fired upon." The corporal gave the okay signal and ordered his section to take up position.

"We'll go across in pairs. The Stickie goes first, that alright, sarn't?"

"Fine, quick as you can."

I picked Ral to go with me, it was Aimo who volunteered though; he had a suggestion too. "Smoke grenades first?"

"Nah no smoke grenades."

The sergeant overheard and chimed in. "No smoke grenades, we'd have used them already for an assault."

The Stickie, understanding the plan was already across. He'd only needed to take three long strides. Now it was our turn, "let's just go, Ral, on me." Tensing, I stepped back a pace and bounded into the open nearly bent double, expecting to feel the searing heat of las bolts melting my flesh to my bones, my expectations were wrong happily as Ral and I made it across unharmed.

"Wow, exhilarating," Ral panted.

"Leo, Molke, you're next!"

"Come on, Molke, go together yeah?" Leo said encouragingly.

"Move it!" I was aware of the silence, in the absence of the shots from the deck above a creepy stillness had taken hold. The longer we waited the greater the likelihood the Stickies would notice our movements. Leo and Molke got over unharmed, we were still undetected.

"That's it, that's it," I pulled Leo in. Molke looked frightened out of his mind.

"Why aren't they shooting?" he asked.

"Who, us or them?"

"Anyone."

"Quiet now, son," Leo hushed him.

"You, cooks, get over here!"

"Azar, with me," Gale slung his Lecta and prepared to run. Azar hesitated for a brief second leaving a rather large gap between them, because of it I signalled him clearly to wait. Azar ignored it and ran anyway.

"Azar!" Gale, furious, caught Azar by his shoulder straps and hauled him in once he was across. "Why didn't you wait when corporal told you to?"

"You're the sarn't," Azar said innocently.

"This isn't the kitchen, private, we're leg infantry now!"

"Brigadier gonna make me first cook—"

"Won't make any difference when I bust you back to a rifle company."

"Enough!" I snapped. "Sarn't Gale, relieve Azar of his weapon and ammo if he can't keep his trap shut."

"See, Azar, it's not clever being insubordinate," Gale glared. Aimo and Kat, both waiting impatiently for my signal acknowledged it when it was finally given and dashed over to us, the only drama had been Gale and Azar's verbal tussle. The Stickies were still in the dark; quite literally.

With the section still intact we came upon another of the 'lifts', guarded like before, and took it up to Deck Two. These chokepoints were the sole points of ingress and egress inside the ship, impractical due to only being able to carry one up or down at a time, easily defendable too, I wondered why none of the Stickies had thought about using them against us.

"Hey, I wonder why the Stickies didn't think to use these against us," Ral said, blissfully ignorant of my current thoughts.

"Dunno," Aimo scratched his head with his carbines' muzzle.

"Careful, get any more grease down the barrel it'll jam up," Kat said.

"Not me, take good care of my hair so I do."

"Leave him, Kat, he's well organised, let him sort his own problems out," I smiled to myself, stifling a snort of amusement.

"I got no problems, Larn, and anyway they're all 'cause of you."

"There it is," I laughed softly, "wouldn't have it any other way."

We ditty-bopped through the curious and the bizarre architecture of corridors on the engineering deck, encountering pairs and foursomes shaved off from the main force to guard captured Stickies.

"Lumme," Aimo noticed the blood stains on the deck and bulkhead, many more than there had been on the lower deck. Spent brass kicked around by boots clinked together. The nostril-tingling scent of a recent gunfight got up our noses making us sneeze.

"Pfft, you know what they say about the only good Stickie…" Azar kicked a stack of four dead Stickies as we passed by.

"I don't see any weapons," Ral checked them over briefly. "They've been zipped with three-three-eight, through and throughs, exit wounds to the upper torso."

"So they were slotted whilst trying to run," Aimo gulped and looked worried for a minute.

"Sounds like Major Lomas just lowered the bar," I said flatly.

"If he ordered this…" Leo said a handkerchief held over his mouth. "Major Lomas that is then he's gone and removed the bar completely."

"Then it's on his head, he's responsible."

"Either that or he paws off the blame to the sergeants," Kat said glumly. "And they kick the ball down to the corporals, and us."

 _He'd better not be another Kaukasios_ , I vowed to never serve under such a vile human being again, if I did there would be a fragging, that was for damn sure. "Doesn't matter now, what they do is their problem. All we can do is look out for our own people in this war. Who cares what an overzealous officer does to get promoted just as long as he ain't our officer."

"Yeah, perhaps a little bit of human decency now and again, Larn," Ral said coldly. "Aren't we supposed to be the good guys?" He folded the dead Stickies' arms over their bodies and closed each of their eyelids. "Good people don't do bad things."

 _Yes we do, there's a fine line between being good and bad, and all it takes for a good person to do bad things is a tiny little nudge,_ I imagined myself turning and sternly addressing Ral on the nature of war, it was all in my head though in reality I was too tired to lecture him. "Keep it moving," I grunted.

The gun deck, if it could be called that, was in name only, the layout being a precise mirror of the deck below with the whereabouts of the batteries flummoxing those we met. The sections left behind to mop up any resistance and police the prisoners had several casualties being tended to by medics but had no dead so far. A wide, low-ceilinged chamber set amidships, presumably for the absent batteries was where the PWs, nearly fifty, were in the process of being searched and then herded into the centre of the chamber under heavy guard. Those retaining their Guard-issue 8-inch bayonet had affixed them to their IM rifles and threatened to jab it into any PW that made any sudden moves.

"Corp?" Ral, unlike the rest of us who had flopped down out of the way, was still on his feet and desperate for something.

"Yeah," I knew that he wanted to rush over to the wounded to help the other medics despite lacking any proper supplies, such dedication was strangely stirring. I wanted to sympathise with the lad who was overflowing with compassion for any and all wounded, even enemy, but found I could not. When he had gone I pointed out a figure in OGs wearing a khaki beret, Major Lomas. "Leo, there's the major, why don't you ask him if he knew 'bout the killings downstairs?"

"What?"

"You're an officer you can cosy up to him."

"Drop dead, Larn," Leo muttered without a hint of humour in his voice.

"Already have done," I retorted with the tiniest trace of satisfaction.

"Encore."

"What?" Kat paused, his canteen half-way to his mouth.

"Speakin' of dropping dead," Aimo elbowed me and pointed at Major Lomas.

"What, the major?"

"Look who he's talkin' to."

"That a Stickie?" Molke asked as if he had never laid eyes on one before. Our own Stickie had deserted us to meet up with a pair of his friends. Just how they could emote to one another wearing those smooth, full-face helmets was anyone's guess.

"Don't look like them others," Aimo said. The Stickie in question had our back to us and wore a hooded cloak, in the poor light it looked like it had a camouflage pattern. Holes had been torn in the fabric by bullets or shrapnel and some of the edges were burnt and badly frayed. "Oi, Larn, maybe it's…" Aimo shook me by the shoulder, but I had already fallen asleep.

* * *

 _Shut up in a tomb, cannot lift the lid, playing a role I never conceived,_ Major Lew Lomas lamented as he listened to the words falling from the xeno's mouth. Never more than a soft whisper, Lomas strained to hear what the xeno said whilst wishing with every fibre of his being that someone else was leading this dratted expedition.

Lew Lomas was thirty-five, and still a major. He knew of lieutenant colonels in their twenties and even some full colonels that were younger than him. Time and time again he had been passed over for promotion by the great green machine, and kicked about by senior officers younger than him and who had not put nearly as much effort into getting a commission as he had. Lomas, unlike Colonel Creel and Colonel Zandyke, had been awarded a commission through skilled leadership and battlefield merit rather than be granted one by the Schola Progenium. He knew for a fact that he was not in a minority for many NCOs had earned the 2nd lieutenant's pips in combat, Lomas certainly was proud to wear the pips for a good number of years knowing it was only through great personal struggle that he had won them. It was only after four years of being a 2nd lieutenant and, fast approaching his twenty-ninth birthday that Lomas' pride at being accepted into the officer's mess gradually turned to embarrassment with him quickly becoming known as the elderly lieutenant and the passed-over ranker. Lomas now found it difficult to enter conversations with the other junior officers, so often seven or even eight years' younger than him, and only if he initiated the conversation would he attract listeners; even then it was never a large audience.

The day of his promotion to full lieutenant was an unhappy one, by rights it should have lifted his spirits only the placement he was filling had just been made vacant; violently so. A party of staff officers accompanying a major general had been invited to a weapons demonstration, the platoon conducting it were testing out a brace of experimental drum-fed forty millimetre grenade launchers, everything went smoothly; then the accident happened. One such tester, a buck corporal with two tours neglected to check the chamber of his weapon then turned away from the firing range, misjudged his footing on the soft ground, and fell over accidentally touching the trigger, discharging the grenade launcher in the direction of the gathered officers. In mid-flight the projectile touched the ground at a shallow angle and skipped off hitting the platoon leader in the centre of his forehead. The subaltern had been standing twenty-nine metres from the point of discharge, another metre further and the warhead would have detonated killing or severely injuring everyone from major general down to captain. The corporal with the hair trigger was found guilty of half a dozen different offences, court-martialled, and slapped with dishonourable discharge. The platoon leader, a man by the name of Hil Walen whom Lomas had liked, was likewise granted a discharge though his was taken lying down inside a zinc casket with metal handles. Someone had tossed a wounded lion on top as it was being lowered into the ground, then someone else remarked that at least he had died serving the Imperium. Lomas got his second set of pips though he wondered just how many he would have got if the officers had been standing just that little bit further away.

Lieutenant Lomas achieved captaincy two days after his thirty-third birthday and coincidentally two days after he had taken command of Alpha Company of 1 Neria whose major had been driven mad by the fierce shelling of their positions outside Nereus' capital city and the attached commissar had 'accidentally' shot himself in the foot with his own bolt pistol. With the line crumbling from repeated daylight attack and overnight infiltrations a general retreat order was given with a decree heard over Lomas's comms that whoever was last out were to lay down their lives for the God-Emperor and the Imperium. 'A' Company were chosen to die fighting in glorious combat, which at least was what Lomas assumed the brass intended for them to do what with their parent unit, 3rd Division of XXI Nerian Army Corps fleeing with all haste to their troopships with little thought to the rearguard. There was no question about it, there was still a way out and even with more than half of the seventy men opting to stay and fight Lomas was still making the decisions. With more than a few choice words about what division could go do with themselves Lomas marched the seventy men after their retreating army and, with the enemy snapping at their heels, made it to the evacuation point. Not a single man died on the march, only seventeen were wounded and all lived. Lomas was granted a captaincy and the Order of Ollanius Pius. It would have been the Star of Terra if only for his insubordination in the face of a direct order. For that reason Lomas was informed shortly after that he would never command a combat company again and that it would be better if he quietly accepted an out-of-the-way placement on the staff of the newly-promoted Brigadier Emil Vorbeck. _The Imperium does not decorate soldiers for insubordination, the Imperium decorates soldiers for martyrdom and unwavering faith in the human cause for it is righteous and noble,_ they told Lomas as they presented to him the pips of a major and politely booted him up the ladder. That was that, Lew Lomas would now die or retire a major, just another forgotten soldier swept underneath the carpet by the great green machine. Resigned to a staff job with precisely zero prospect of career advancement Lomas's spark slowly began to fade, Nemesis Tessera happened, and now he was on a Stickie ship, an _enemy_ ship, and in the company of Stickies.

 _We shall all be going to prison for this,_ Lomas thought bitterly, wondering just what sort of madness had affected the brigadier for him to order a truce with the Stickies. What Lomas also did not understand was why some were with them and some were not, all looked the same to him, overgrown, freakishly skinny, and with those disgusting pointed ears. Were he in command he would have ordered the cleansing of the ship from bows to stern, but alas he was not. Brigadier Vorbeck's order still stood, and so did the cloaked and hooded female Stickie in front of Lomas.

 _Damn silly name_. _They should have named them Skinnies instead of Stickies_ , he thought, pondering just who had come up with the awkward nickname.

"Major?" The female Stickie's eyes blazed from beneath her hood. "Major!" Her tone was now devoid of all mysteriousness, taking on a hard edge though still scarcely louder than a whisper.

"Well, Stickie?" Lomas folded his arms.

"The communications suite is directly above our heads, I suggest you hold your position here and await my signal."

"Why? Why rule out an assault?"

"The seer captain is very aware of our efforts and has shut down all power to the decks with the exception of the bridge and communications, had your men tarried for too long life support would have been cut too."

"That is standard emergency procedure?"

"Exactly, in isolating the decks the seer captain has you trapped, he has but to wait for reinforcements to arrive from other vessels in the fleet; then he will kill you all."

"We have hostages…"

"Just try and play hostage games with an Eldar, major, just try," the female Stickie backed away a pace, spun and departed from sight with the tiny handful of other 'friendly' Stickies in tow. Lomas felt a shiver run down his spine, those unnatural eyes had never once blinked, and the damnable creature never even explained what it was up to. Pah, let them do the legwork, Lomas could see the worn-out men, exhausted from the strain of fighting through unfamiliar territory, flopping down around the edges of the chamber, some even getting their heads down for short power naps. A tiny minority of wounded were being tended to by the medics that had not stayed behind on Nemtess, their wounds superficial and not of any great concern. Lomas allowed himself a nod of satisfaction, truth be told the men had done rather well for themselves.

Barehanded, Izuru Numerial composed herself and rapped on the bulkhead loudly.

"Speak, friend, or die as the prey do!" a shrill voice rang out through a speaker above the sealed hatch.

"Izuru Numerial, ranger, and ambassador to the human race demands entry!" Izuru cried. There was a pause, she imagined the crew inside the communications suite scrutinising her and the four corsairs, her 'bodyguard' closely for any hint of deception by way of invisible eyes in the corridor above and around her.

"Maugan Ra and Baharroth, the entire ship has been overrun!" a frightened crewman, devoid of helm, beckoned desperately as the hatch shot upwards. "In, in! How did you escape capture or death? We scarcely imagined any would be spared the slaughter."

 _All too easy,_ Izuru glided in silently. "The humans betrayed our trust they are dishonourable with an astounding arrogance that shall be their undoing. I say let them sit idle, before long our wrath will cast their lifeless bodies from the Grace where they will be served to The Great Serpent. Return to your assignments and take heart for the prey are trapped on the decks below, for as long as the Grace is on lockdown they can do nothing but await our return." Izuru's words seemed to inspire the half dozen crew most of whom were visibly scared and unarmed to boot. It amused her that all it had taken to avert any suspicion were a few words of reassurance, hollow though they sounded. Discreetly Izuru signalled the four corsairs to take position, adopting the loud, obnoxious persona to draw the crews' attention to her. "You requested reinforcements the moment the humans betrayed us?"

"His Eminence, the seer captain did not inform us until recently, we were unaware of the humans' intentions."

"His Eminence seemed surprised the prey would make such a reckless move seeing as they were wholly ignorant of the plan of the ship and the numbers they would face," another added.

"His Eminence had faith that the Grace's contingent of aspect warriors could contain the prey, sadly it was not to be."

"We will shortly be receiving a half-score of platoons, salvation is at hand."

"Yes," Izuru, in a display of false warmth, smiled. "Yes it is."

In unison the corsairs systematically began to take apart the stunned crew. Fists connected with soft flesh, bodies were slammed to the deck choking and gasping. Izuru's victim wheeled around clutching at the air and trembling with fear. "Why?"

Izuru's face darkened, "it is a mercy."

"Your own people—"

Holding her fingers straight and rigid Izuru punched him in the throat. His breath cut off he collapsed, red-faced and clawing at his throat. The other crew were in various states of incapacitation, been having taken completely by surprise with their assailants barely breaking a sweat; if they were capable of sweating which they were not.

"Clear, now look to the bridge portals, I shall return with reinforcement shortly!"

* * *

"Moving, moving," the words had come out of my mouth before I was even fully awake. I had been defending a hillside on my own, manning a Rekyl stubber against hordes of black-faced, red-eyed phantoms climbing up the slope towards me. Every time I fired the gun a part of it would fly off until all I was left with the trigger. I was alone and helpless, my pleas for reinforcement unheard. The order to move out came the moment before I was bayoneted. As if a switch had been flipped I got to my feet, all sleepiness gone, and became the corporal again. "What's the skinny, sarn't?" I asked a nearby NCO.

"Final push is in five," the sergeant said quietly. "Let your section know."

"Right, sarn't."

"We movin'?" Kat asked. He and the others were all wide awake and restless. I held up five fingers and nodded.

"Sarn't, I didn't get to shoot," Azar whined, stroking his Lecta's wooden stock.

"You'll get your turn with the Perfs soon, Azar," Gale said.

"Whining like you couldn't fuck a particular whore…" Aimo chuckled.

"Why aren't we allowed to shoot, lotsa guys are doin' it, why not us?"

"It's up to Corporal Larn whether we shoot or not. Rules of engagement are we can't slot the Stickies unless they fire first," Kat said. "Simple as that."

"Corporal," the sergeant again, "rounds in chambers."

"Sarn't," I relayed the order to the section, we were now running with safeties off and chambered rifles, we couldn't have been more ready for a fight.

"'Bout fuckin' time," Azar charged his Lecta enthusiastically. "Get me some confirmed kills."

"You discharge that weapon you're going straight back to the kitchen, Azar," Gale also charged his Lecta but with less gusto. "Hear me?"

"Sensible, lads, obey the ROE," Kat said, brass-checking his rifle.

"Ral," I beckoned to the medic, "moving."

Ral looked strangely subdued. "We lost a man just now," he said frankly, "just… happened."

"Anyone we know?" I asked without the slightest bit of concern.

"Uhh, Fil Ozy… Ozy…"

"Ozymandias," I grabbed Ral.

"You know him?" Ral's mouth dropped.

"Knew him from Nemtess."

"Oh, sorry…" he held out a pair of ID tags in his palm.

"Don't mean nothin'," I said nonchalantly, taking the pair of taped disks. "He was a tankie in the Boneheads, he's got mates with him."

"What are their names?"

"Otto Rinek, he's commander, and Teren Runz, he's the driver."

"I'll see if one of them is around."

"Nah, I'll do it."

With Ozzi's tags in my hand I asked around quietly for any tankies. We were in the process of moving out when I found Otto Rinek. The older veteran was on his own, Teren Runz was nowhere to be seen. Neither I nor him said a word, there was just a quick moment of acknowledgement between us before he took the tags and moved off with his section. His eyes told me all I needed to know.

News of the sole fatality spread like a cold water shock. A cold knifing terror in the belly was followed immediately by a rage of anger. There were a storm of promises never to take a by-The-Emperor prisoner. Many swore they would henceforth coolly and in cold blood shoot down every Stickie they saw, and preferably in the guts. In the section, Gale, Azar, and Kat all made sanguinary promises, Gale looked particularly killerish. Azar was almost beside himself and swore to gutshot every Stickie who tried to come to him to surrender, after toying with him five minutes first. Young Molke's reaction on the other hand – though he said not a single word – was one of fear, disbelief and finally massive horror. Leo Wind's eyes got vague and faraway and his face took on an unwilling, shamed look as if he did not want to hear as he muttered, "oh, the dirty bastards," sadly. Aimo looked at me deeply concerned. I said and showed nothing, all I felt was a rising headache.

Only Fil Ozymandias took on a slice of real estate, the last two decks of the ship fell with relative ease and all by the effort of other sections. My section ended its short journey just inside the main communications chamber. "You lot make sleeping sounds here tonight, Ral, we're gonna go find some casualties for you to cuddle."

"How d'you know it's tonight?" Leo said, "Could be morning here."

"'Cause I'm corporal," I said matter-of-factly, "C'mon, Ral."

I needn't have gone with Ral but I sought isolation and aimed to give him the slip once he was preoccupied with fussing over some lightly-wounded lifer. To my annoyance there was a distinct lack of wounded on the way up to the bridge, with all evidence, and word-of-mouth pointing to the fact that it was the little band of Stickies that had picked up our slack for the last leg. "Careful," I motioned Ral for quiet and moved up a wide, sloping accessway leading to the bridge. Near the top we saw a wide, semi-circular portal that was open and guarded by Nerians brandishing IM rifles.

"Wounded?" I asked on Ral's behalf.

"In there, pal," we were directed onto the bridge and over to a group of four wounded sitting against a row of sleek white consoles, all flashing strange runes; gibberish to us.

"Alright, doc," Ral knelt beside another medic who was tending to a sergeant that had taken one in the ribs. "Help you anywhere?"

With Ral occupied I prepared to make my retreat, the happenings in the centre of the bridge however drew my eye. The bridge crew, all in near-identical dress with the officer in command somewhere amongst them, were sitting with their hands on their heads in an open space that was on a lower tier than the guards who surrounded them were, a mixture of Nerians with bayonets fixed and four of the silent Stickies in black; including the one that had been our guide. Major Lomas was there too, he did not look happy. Snapping his fingers he barked an order for the ship's captain to present himself lest he pick a hostage at random and execute said hostage. It was safe to say that they were a sorry-looking bunch, not at all what I expected from a captain and his inner core of officers.

"Corporal!" Major Lomas, seeing me, stabbed a finger at downwards.

"Sir," I came over sullenly.

"Take one of the prisoners, shoot it in the head. We'll keep on with this exercise until the captain of the ship comes forwards." One of the bayonet grunts pulled a Stickie up the steps and shoved him in my direction. "On their knees," Lomas ordered the bayonet grunt who complied, kicking the expressionless Stickie in the back of the knee and forcing him to kneel. "Ask him if he wants to die for his people," Lomas asked one of the black-clad Stickies, one who understood Gothic. Said Stickie bent over beside the prisoner and a near-silent exchange took place. A swift nod to Lomas got the message across. "Corporal, shoot the prisoner."

"Yes, sir," I clicked the Moses' safety off and pointed it between the Stickie's eyes. With such a resigned, blasé expression that betrayed no emotion I was only too ready to oblige him. Forgetting my previous declaration that I would not kill any more Stickies my finger tightened around the trigger.

"DO NOT!" a loud voice exclaimed. In the flesh and not in the least bit imaginary, Izuru Numerial swept across the bridge's threshold. Her hood was thrown back, her hair wild, eyes blazing, and looking quite livid. "Major, there has been too much bloodshed, you assured me the takeover would be a peaceful affair and now I see this man with a sidearm!"

"The captain of this vessel refuses to give himself up—," Lomas began.

Izuru cut him off and addressed the PWs in her own tongue which was too fast to make out individual words.

"Well?" Lomas asked after none of the prisoners spoke up. "Corporal, carry out your orders."

Gripping the Stickie by the shoulder I trained the Moses on his forehead. The eyes were as passive as ever, such acceptance of death, inviting it coldly, clinically; there was something terribly wrong about that. This Stickie did not fear death I realised he was being granted a way out to whatever paradise awaited him.

"Fine, corporal, we'll find someone else," Lomas sighed. Three things happened. I drew back the Moses and, instead of shooting the Stickie, hit him with the barrel. A Stickie rose from the midst of the prisoners, drawing a small lasblaster and another Stickie, this one unarmed, opened his mouth to speak but never managed to draw breath as at the instance I hit my Stickie, the Moses went off in unison with the armed Stickie. Both combined reports were absolutely deafening inside the bridge which swiftly descended into chaos.

Four seconds later the noise gave way to echoes and eventual silence. Lying flat on the deck with my hands pressed over my ringing ears I looked up through streaming eyes through the puffs of gunsmoke across the bridge. The Stickie I had pistol-whipped had a gash on his forehead; from his movements he was alive. Major Lomas, crouched and also with his hands over his ears had dropped his recently-fired IM Rifle, beside him the Gothic-speaking Stickie lay motionless with a smoking tear in his armour. Around the ring of prisoners Nerian and Stickie alike aimed LARs and lasblasters, every single Stickie had been shot dead, no exception. Spent brass was scattered across the bodies that had been pierced by bullet and plasma many times over, turning the once recognisable, defiant beings into cold slabs of meat and bone; confirmed kills. The acrid stench of propellant tickled my nostrils as I picked myself up hearing the telltale clicks and clacks of spent magazines being exchanged for full loads. A face was in mine. Ral shook me and made movements with his mouth. I said nothing, I was deaf. Another body on the floor and out of the way of the others swiftly cleared up my hearing and blurry vision, it was Izuru; I had shot Izuru.

"Ral, Ral," I pattered at his shoulder and mumbled, "Stickie needs cuddlin'."

"Righto," Ral hurried over to Izuru and checked her, he had been out of the line of fire thankfully and did not seem to be too worse for wear. Dim-wittedly I wondered just how I could have shot her as she was standing well out of the way unless the round had ricocheted off the deck.

"Alive, just stunned, GSW to the shoulder, not a through-and-through," Ral said.

 _Thank the Emperor for that, she would have killed me had it been fatal,_ I knelt beside her and peered at the blood leaking from a small hole in her robes.

"Here, hold her upright would you? Light's not good," Ral waited for me to lift Izuru's shoulders off the deck then began to cut around the wound with a pair of scrounged scissors. "Yeah, just gonna pull the bullet out, just hope it's not fragmented else she'll need to go on the table," he produced his tweezers and aimed them at the red hole below Izuru's collarbone.

"Bet ye glad ye kept 'em now, uh?"

"Yeah," Ral pressed gently into the wound and pried around. "You not hit are you?"

"Nah."

"Ears alright?"

"Ringing, I got this background noise sometimes too."

"Little bit of tinnitus there, too much time around big guns," Ral twisted and dug deeper, blood came in greater quantities now oozing down Izuru's shoulder. "Aah, there we go," the tweezers came out holding onto a small piece of metal that was part of the bullet but had crushed on impacting the deck and flown off in different directions. "Looks like a stub pistol round, nine millimetre."

"Hollow-point."

"Nasty things, real ball-ache to treat too the way they fragment inside the body, bet you're relieved it was only a ricochet – there, she's coming round." Izuru's eyes rolled into the back of her head briefly before opening slowly.

"Alright, Our Stickie," I said. "Not to worry, yer in good hands."

"If you'll allow me," Ral ripped a dressing from its packet and pressed it over the wound, "My last."

"You shot me," Izuru murmured.

"Promise I'll do better next time, I'll aim for yer head."

"I got the fragment out, here," Ral showed Izuru the piece of the bullet, "might want to keep it for luck."

"Doc Ral's a grunt medic he's fully qualified to administer hugs to dyin' grunts, and since he's out of bandages he might just 'ave to start cuddlin'."

Izuru blinked and stared up at me like I was mad before her eyes turned to the bullet. "You did not shoot him?"

"Nah gave him a tap. Bloody accidental discharge nearly wasted you."

"The crew…" Izuru shook me off and leapt upright.

"Steady on…" Ral put out an arm to assist.

"No," Izuru fell to her knees in despair at the sight of the crew. "No."

"Throne," Ral swallowed hard and made the sign of the Aquila.

 _They are confirmed kills_ , I felt that was the most appropriate statement to make, a declaration in fact but, seeing Izuru all shaken up awoke something in me, a feeling of shame that by rights I should have left behind on Nemtess only it had now caught up with me. Looking down at the warm Moses held loosely in my left hand I was overcome with guilt and wanted dearly to throw the damn thing away, but where could I throw it to? For the first time in so long I made the sign of the Aquila and quietly asked both him and her for forgiveness.

"Izuru…" a softly tuneful voice broke the silence. "Izuru…" The voice came from the point on the bridge closest to the prow of the ship. "Izuru, where art thou…?"

Gasping Izuru looked up as a towering holographic image blinked into existence, "Macha!"


	7. Chapter 6

**The House of Trazyn, Planet Solemnace, The Eastern Fringes, Ultima Segmentum**

Shesmet awoke alone, she always did now. In her previous life the inquisitor was always there, his presence reminding her that she was his property, and in effect, a slave bound to do his bidding forever. "I am Shesmet, I am Shesmet," she repeated over and over under her breath, banishing the brow-beaten assassin-turned-slave whose name the Inquisition had bestowed upon her so long ago. The nameless girl had become Kora, and now Kora was gone; only Shesmet remained.

The first night in Trazyn's house Shesmet had awoken in the dark drenched in sweat and clutching the scaled cape of the mechanical man around her, frightened that the inquisitor's hands would reach out from the darkness to reclaim her. In a way though Shesmet missed it, the realisation slowly dawning on her, however twisted and one-sided her relationship with the inquisitor had been. It was enough to keep her awake and in fear, so much so sleep eluded her from then on. _I want out,_ Shesmet probed blindly at the narrow walls of the shelf, her hands slapping on the hard, flat surfaces. With a tiny hiss the shelf extended from the wall letting in the thin shafts of green light from the corridor outside. _Freezing,_ Shesmet gasped as her feet touched the black stone nearly giving way under her weight. Concluding she needed clothing Shesmet pulled Trazyn's cape over her shoulders and clasped it together tightly at her neck, clamping her teeth together as the cold tickled her skin. The pitter-patter of Shesmet's bare feet echoed throughout the empty chambers and halls all of which were empty with the exception of the glowing green lines travelling across the tall ceilings and up and down the pillars and walls. "Trazyn?" she called softly. The solitude was unnerving not because Shesmet was by herself, naked and unarmed in a complex of dark, eerie rooms, it was the eyes she felt following her every step she took, but whenever she cast a glance over her shoulder there was always nothing, no Trazyn or any of the sentinels. The latter beings, upon being approached were as statuesque and inanimate as ever. Perched on five-metre high plinths, the towering guardian's gaze was fixed on a point far above Shesmet, not that it heartened her in any way. There was something about them that ticked her, their material was nothing like stone nor did it resemble any alloy, Kora had never happened across a race of bipedal mechanical beings during her studies which were extensive and far more thorough than even those taken at the Schola Progenium; the xenos were a complete mystery to her as they were to Shesmet.

"Trazyn?" she called once more, glancing inadvertently behind her. Seeing nothing but darkness she turned back then, realising something had changed looked again. The two sentinels had _changed_ direction and were now facing her. Step by step Shesmet backed away, the hairs on her arms and legs standing on end, her skin marked with gooseflesh. A nearby clatter broke the spell. Shesmet heard a mechanical buzz and the nerve-jangling patter of legs, many legs. "Trazyn?" Green eyes blinked at her from the shadows, a rapid clicking noise, the sound of tiny pincers clacking, grew louder. Scurrying from the shadows came three squat automatons, their beetle-like bodies held aloft by six spindly legs that ended in sharp points.

"Do not fight them," Shesmet felt Trazyn's quietly urgent voice in her mind.

"What are they?" Shesmet gasped stumbling away from the skittering beetles bearing down on her.

"Stay, stay, I am in control, the Mindshackle Scarabs mean you no harm. Kneel and be still."

"What is their purpose?" Shesmet froze and felt the Scarabs rush around her legs. Bending her knees she knelt, tensing from the sharpness on her arm as a Scarab latched onto the scales and climbed up onto her shoulder; light as a feather despite its metallic body. Shutting her eyes tightly Shesmet winced when a leg brushed her temple. An icy chill enveloped her mind as if a great torrent of water had doused her. The flash of pain shortly rescinded leaving behind a numbness that lulled her senses, turning her body into a sluggish lump of flesh and bone.

"The Scarabs seek any hidden motives, any deception, and lies you have hidden," Trazyn's voice, soft and soothing cut through the web surrounding Shesmet.

"My mind, it is no longer my own," Shesmet's heartbeat quickened. Tilting her head back she shivered violently, tears running down her cheeks.

"Resisting would be… unwise."

"I hide nothing…"

"That remains to be seen."

"Throne of Terra! Blessed God-Emperor!" Shesmet cried as her mind was released from the Scarab's hold. Toppling forwards her palms slammed into the hard stone, convulsing she tried to throw up over the floor but could not, resigning herself to dry heaving.

"You pass the test," Trazyn melted from the shadows his clawed feet dangling several feet above the floor. Hanging from his shoulders was another cape, one of silver that glittered when the light caught the edges of the scales. "You shall remain Shesmet. Your ties to the Inquisition have been severed."

"Max, Titus," Shesmet whispered. Gaps had opened in her memories, certain individuals and events had vanished completely where before they were significant turning points in her previous life. "I remember some but have forgotten others," she breathed.

"Be safe in the knowledge that the will of others shall no longer be imposed on you, you are freed from the Inquisition's grip."

"No…" Shesmet struggled to her feet, wiping her eyes dry. "You, you obliterated my memories," she sniffed eyeing the three Scarab's which were spiralling in the air around Trazyn. "Max, Titus, the Inquisitor are all there, but there are blanks."

"I took away your paaain," Trazyn cocked his head to one side, his tone one of dismay. The warmth in his eyes departed, a cold, pale yellow replacing the emerald. "My kindness… you repay my kindness with suspicion and hostility?"

"They were my memories!" Shesmet's face cracked. "What gives you the right to play with my life, to decree what I may and may not remember? Who are you that steal memories from the living for you own gain? Who are you?"

Trazyn's eyes, for the briefest moment, turned a dark orange. In one swift movement he swooped downwards to Shesmet's level, hid body floating near-horizontal. Still his feet did not touch the ground. "Then allow me to introduce myself in full, dear lady," he said, his skull-shaped head less than an arm's length from Shesmet. "I am Trazyn the Infinite, Archeovist of the Solemnace Galleries and proud overlord of the Necron race."

"Necron…"

"Speak no longer, shut your eyes, and let the dreamless slumber accept you into its arms," Trazyn murmured, staying her tongue. Catching Shesmet before she fell Trazyn lifted her into his arms and carried her sleeping form away.

Shesmet, true to Trazyn's word, slept without disturbance. She awoke to warm sunshine, but the sensation was fleeting as she saw the artificial image she was lying in front of. Sitting upright Shesmet reached out, a naïve curiosity overcoming her normally cautious manner, the image disappointingly was solid. "What is this place?" Shesmet gazed down the enormous length of a gallery, the screens curving gently away out of eventual sight into distant fog. Rising strenuously Shesmet's stomach growled from lack of nourishment, her body ached all over too, from her feet to her neck. Sleeping in comfort was what she was accustomed to now, her days of roughing it were long past.

"You are awake," Trazyn's voice startled her, his sudden appearance even moreso. "You require clothing, nourishment?" Shesmet nodded, she was too hungry and cold to press Trazyn for answers to the questions she had. "Let us seek suitable garments, I do you dishonour for leaving your body naked as the day it was born."

"Please, I apologise for my manner yesterday, lord," Shesmet said. "This is your house."

"My people have not called me Lord for thousands of years, young Shesmet; I would like you to call me Trazyn."

"Very well," Shesmet rubbed her stomach underneath Trazyn's cape. Her bladder ached terribly and she was aware of her dirty skin and that she was itching constantly. Shesmet said nothing to Trazyn, not wanting to come off as a wet blanket.

"Though my collection is vast I do not count many human exhibits, at least none of the unarmoured female variety," Trazyn murmured. Hurrying in his wake Shesmet's attention was taken by a vast man in baroque power armour of green and bronze who was sitting in suspended animation. Through the slightly blurred glass, or whatever other material it was, Shesmet glimpsed the man's shaved head and his coal-black skin.

"Is he alive, dead?"

"He is aware but thankfully is not in a current position to do anything about his predicament," Trazyn replied somewhat casually.

"Why do you keep these people behind bars, are they your enemies? Are they criminals?"

"They are my collection."

Shesmet moved on to the next 'cell', this one was much vaster and depicted a close-range firefight between two parties of Space Marines who, like with the black giant, were completely still. Shesmet gaped in awe at the simulated battlefield around them, the mud, the wreckage, and even the spent shell casings from the Marines' bolters caught in mid-flight. "I recognise them," she breathed, pressing herself against the glass. "Those in blue are Ultramarines, but the ones in grey I cannot place."

"The Ultramarines' foes are World Bearers, Calth was where they fought."

"You kidnapped them…" Shesmet turned to Trazyn slowly, staggered at his casual, unapologetic nature in which he regarded them. "How long have they been kept like this?"

"A few hundred shy of ten-thousand years, a single heartbeat for me though my memory of that age is not what it once was," Trazyn glided away. "And I did not kidnap them, I saved their lives. Calth was a slaughter for both sides; more than half a million died there."

"Did you ask them?" Shesmet hurried to catch up to him, her toes now numb from the cold. "Ask them before you turned them into your playthings?" Trazyn said nothing this only made Shesmet more hurt and desperate for answers. "What gives you the right to play at being a god with these men?"

"DO NOT LIKEN ME TO THOSE THINGS!" Trazyn turned and loomed over her his eyes flashing. "A god I am not. A god cares nothing for the sufferings of the little, insignificant folk only seeing pawns to play with for his own gains. As you humans would say the lion does not concern itself with the opinions of the sheep, that was their creed, their way, and they damned us all!"

Shesmet taken aback by the furious passion in Trazyn's voice backed down, "You were not always like this were you?" Reaching out she took hold of one of Trazyn's fingers, surprisingly he let her. "This skin was not always yours, was it?"

"No, the tale of our race's fall is a long and boring account. To regale you with its details would take many days and I fear you would fall asleep long before I finished," Trazyn said, his voice calmer and less raspy. The light in his eyes had become a pale green once more. "Such tales are for another time, I would see you fed and clothed appropriately, come."

In an ante-chamber off the main gallery Shesmet stood back and watched shelves slip seamlessly from the blank walls, in each were clothes from both-present day and eras long forgotten. "Choose any garment you desire. When you need me I shall return," he waved a hand then backed out quietly.

"Is there…" Shesmet looked over her shoulder but Trazyn was nowhere to be seen. "Throne," she muttered, casting aside the cloak. Wasting no time Shesmet found a thick, double-breasted sleeveless jerkin with a tall collar and a cotton shirt to wear underneath. She noted with interest the flash on her shirts' right shoulder, a green, three-headed serpent with a yellow background. The patch was unfamiliar to her as were most of the shelves' contents. "Shoes?" she cast about for any footwear but aside pairs of socks came up empty-handed. "Trazyn?"

"All must remove their footwear before entering the House of Trazyn," Trazyn reappeared, this time holding a tall staff in his hand, taller than even him, its headpiece was a green orb held between two curved blue prongs; it glowed faintly.

"How do you…" Surprised, Shesmet shied away, her hand clutched to her heart. "How do you do that?"

Trazyn inclined his head in a manner that seemed to substitute a smile. "Your voice carries, young Shesmet."

"Do you take offence to the wearing of shoes in your house?"

"Offence is a strong word, aversion would be more appropriate. And no, my reasons are not spiritual rather practical, I detest dirt, mud, and the germs that are rife in the outside world." Graciously offering Shesmet his hand Trazyn added, "All should aspire to keeping a clean house, for how can body and mind be clean if the abode is not?"

Shesmet let Trazyn lead her out of the galleries and through smaller habitation chambers all spartan in appearance and furnishings, not a single being was encountered, only the scuttling of legs was to be heard occasionally. Shesmet looked up at Trazyn and wondered if her lived alone in his house, whether there was anyone else around.

"I have not entertained for a very long time, apologies if you find nourishment lacking," Trazyn gestured for Shesmet to sit at a stone table with a single plate containing a mound of grey paste. "It is all I have that is suitable for human consumption."

"Thank you, Trazyn," Shesmet bowed gratefully and sat on a rough stone bench. "Thank you for your continued hospitality, I am unsure how I will be able to repay your kindness." Picking up a wooden spoon she dug into the slop and tasted it, disgusting was too kind a word to use then. Shesmet made no remark however and continued to eat, her hunger overriding the terrible taste.

"There will come a time when service is required, for now you may stay as a guest of mine," Trazyn said, he took to ghosting around the table where Shesmet sat. "When you are fed you may ask me anything and I will answer." When the last of the filth was gone Shesmet put down her spoon and began her questioning.

* * *

 **The Grace of The Mother, The Webway**

"Macha," Izuru repeated.

 _Who's Macha?_ Ral and I exchanged baffled looks.

"It is as I expected," Macha's piercing gaze swept slowly around the contents of the bridge before settling on the dead seer captain and his crew. "You are a traitor to our species…" Behind her bright lances of light pulsated from the Arabulucu's hull as her batteries warmed, "liar, meddler, and soon-to-be outcast."

"Meet me in single combat," Izuru, aware time was running out, blurted. "I challenge you to duel. Let the gods decide who is right." Macha's face betrayed nothing, but there was this ghost of an arrogant, self-satisfied smirk on her features. I disliked her immensely because of that.

"They ain't aiming at us are they?" Ral muttered, eyeing the warming pulsars worriedly.

"Nah can't be," I said confidently, feeling exactly the opposite however. Everyone on the bridge watched as missiles came in great swarms from their launch tubes and branches of narrow lasers met to form massive, uninterrupted beams of blinding yellow light.

"Khaela," Izuru whispered, glancing back over her shoulder at Ral and I, but the broadside missed the Grace entirely, hitting other ships in the fleet.

"Now that I have your attention," Macha looked down her nose at Izuru then turned her eyes on me. "It did not take long to find the ships carrying the prey, like the rest of your race you will die in our shadow crying and begging for mercy."

"Cor, look at that," Ral, aghast, stood and took off his helmet, "Just like that." His sentiment was felt by everyone. We had a grandstand view of the half dozen vessels venting atmosphere, burning fiercely, or falling apart, their backs broken by the vicious storm of missiles and pulsars. In the centre Macha's flickering image wore a triumphant expression, "did you believe you could slip away from under my nose, half-caste, you and your human lovers?"

"Let us settle this with honour, pretender," Izuru said quietly. Her back was to us but the soft anger in her voice was evident.

"Honour?!" Macha barked, "The half-breed dares to lecture me on honour! We shall meet again on Ulthwé, let our might and the gods' judgment settle the confrontation." Her figure vanished, all was silent.

Loud voices echoed up the accessway, "Anyone alive up there, we heard rounds fired!"

"Sir?" I went over to Major Lomas and shook him lightly by the shoulder. "We're alright aren't we, sir?"

"Anyone alive up there? Sound off or we're coming in with guns up!"

"Major!" Izuru snapped, "Bring the crew from the communications deck up to the bridge and have them assume control." Major Lomas, uncomprehending, stared blankly into space.

"Sarn't," I rushed to an NCO senior to me seeing as Lomas was acting like a vegetable.

"CLEAR!" the sergeant bellowed, "Fifteen Stickies dead, no human!"

"Roger, comin' in!"

"Sarn't, Stickie says we gotta get the commo crew up here else there'll be no-one to fly the ship."

"Major, are you hit?" Ral asked Lomas.

"Sarn't take over…" Lomas said faintly and wandered away.

"Fucking mess, Corporal," the sergeant glowered at me. "Accidental discharge was it?"

"Sorry, Sarn't, finger slipped," sheepishly I safetied the Moses and shoved it into my hip pocket.

"Keep your finger off the trigger next time."

"Yes, Sarn't."

"Take off and find those Stickies and bring them back up here – iggery."

"Righto, Sarn't," I chased up Ral, him having used up all his supplies meant he was useless to the two medics treating the wounded. "Sorry, Ral, you're coming wi' me." Our departure from the bridge was met with a good deal of questions and raised rifles from bods who had been stationed nearby, it wasn't our problem I said, let them go up and see for themselves.

"Medical frigate Grace of the Mother this is Captain Avele Swifteye…" Izuru flew at the empty console and hurriedly opened the comms.

"Yes, hello, Captain, this is Izuru Numerial."

"Do you have the ship?"

"We have the ship yes."

"You have seen…"

"It was Macha."

"Macha, why would she turn her guns on our own ships, to what gain?"

"They were the vessels that carried the humans, she would have seen the Grace destroyed too if not for my decision to face her in single combat."

"You face…" Avele broke off, letting the words hang in the air. "You have made a very bad decision, ranger, I can personally attest to Macha's renown in combat."

"If you think I will meet her in an honourable fight you are quite wrong. Return to the Grace before Macha obliterates you," Izuru said tersely. "Is Keladi with you?"

"Izuru, are you hurt?" Keladi said anxiously.

"Not at all, you are safe?"

"Yes, were in transit when the Arabulucu opened fire, I did not know what to think of it, the very notion of a war amongst our people turns my stomach."

"It is good to hear your voice. Captain put down in the fore hangar bay I will meet you there presently."

Many pairs of running feet pounded on the accessway, more soldiers were pouring onto the bridge, their weapons raised and searching for targets. "Contact! You, camo robes, put your hands above your head," a coarse voice shouted.

"Hold, belay that order," Brigadier Vorbeck, accompanied by a pair of colonels and bodyguards waved at the jumpy soldiers to stand down. "Colonel Zandyke, sitrep."

"Sarn't, give me a bodycount," Zandyke gestured to the ranking noncom that had been on the bridge when the shots were fired.

"Sir, fifteen Stickie dead, four ORs wounded," the sergeant said.

"The ORs were wounded in the contact just now?"

"No, sir, the ORs were wounded when the bridge was taken, one of the NCOs suffered accidental discharge of a sidearm which provoked one of the Stickie prisoners to use a concealed weapon to shoot dead one of the allied Stickies."

"So you used that as an excuse to gun down the PWs in cold blood? And where is Major Lomas, he was in command what were his reasons?" Colonel Zandyke called up his sergeant major, "Sarn't Major find Major Lomas and tell him I need to speak with him immediately."

"Sir," the sergeant major proceeded to drown out the entire bridge with his stentorian voice. Major Lomas was located a mere three seconds later.

"Major Lomas, explanation," Colonel Zandyke folded his arms and awaited the reply.

Out of the way of the goings-on, Brigadier Vorbeck who had far greater concerns than a mere dozen dead Stickies spotted the female Stickie trying to slip away discreetly. "Tell me, the rumours I am hearing, they are not true are they?"

"I am sorry," Izuru shook her head refusing to meet his eye. "We barely avoided our own destruction."

" _Dammit_ ," Vorbeck, his voice scarcely louder than a whisper but icy cold, grasped her arm and did not let go. "Those were my people on those ships, men I made a promise to to get them off Nemtess alive and home safe, not to get caught up in a petty conflict between damn xenos!"

"Release your grip, Brigadier, or we are done," Izuru said, her tone melancholy.

"Tell me, are we all that are left? Do not lie!"

"You and those aboard this ship are all that are left of the guard and naval forces that fought on Nemtess, I am sorry for your loss."

"And so it ends," Vorbecks' heart grew heavy from the pain of losing so many who had believed they would return home alive. "The alliance never came to fruition."

"Not in our lifetime." Stepping out of his way Izuru hung her head and walked out of the bridge.

Sighing discreetly Vorbeck called to Colonel Zandyke, "Colonel, clear the bridge of non-essential personnel."

"Yes, Brigadier. Sarn't Major, all non-essential personnel off the bridge."

"Sir, right anyone not vital to the running of this ship off the bridge iggery!" the sergeant major bellowed. "MOVE IT!"

Ral Bleak and I, returning to the commo chamber below the bridge found it filled to bursting with sweaty olive grey bodies and humid from cigarette smoke. "Almost as bad as the troopships," Ral remarked, wafting the air around his face. "Least we're not stacked in bunks half a dozen high."

We were greeted with open arms by the section who had heard rumours about the shooting on the bridge, expecting an overblown tale of heroism they were disappointed when I explained the accident and what had followed. "Just about fifteen confirmed, all Stickies."

"Eh, don't matter 'bout the Stickies, good to see you're both in one piece," Aimo shoved Molke aside and made a space for me to sit. "Sit yourself down we got a brew comin' on."

"One sec," Gale was busy with a portable kettle. "Scurm and Weld were kind enough to bring this upstairs for us."

"The lockdown been lifted then?" I said, bemused, "thought the decks were cut off from one another."

"Maybe the Stickie had a hand in that…" Ral said.

"Erm, Larn, we been hearin' some rumours y'know," Kat wrung his hands worriedly. "Something 'bout the Stickies wasting their own people 'cause of us, just wanted to know whether it was true or not."

Adopting a hard expression I bit my lip and addressed the section, "we're on our own, whoever's onboard with us is… well it's everyone." I slumped against the bulkhead and switched off. Molke, Ral, Leo, and Aimo had stunned, faraway looks of those deep in shock, Kat, Gale, and Azar, with Azar wearing a particularly murderous expression, muttered about the vile things they would do to any Stickies they caught trying to surrender. With the rest of us not another word was spoken. The brew-up slowly went cold.

Consumed by a great anger Izuru dug her nails into her palm and pressed, the white-hot rage she had not felt since calling on her psyker's power to tear apart the inquisition holding Keladi hostage, or even on Grendel and her beating at the hands of the Void Dragons. Macha's destruction of friendly ships had broken just about every single tenet in their creed only she would not be held accountable for it, not with the majority of the seer council in her pocket. Now Izuru was bound by law to face Macha sword to sword, Avele Swifteye's warning did nothing to contain her dread only making it worse with the knowledge that Macha was well-versed in swordplay. _Damn her, damn her and all the sycophants on the council, bending over and allowing Macha to fuck them one by one,_ Izuru seethed, wishing with all her heart she could lash out at anyone as a means to vent her frustration. She controlled herself however and maintained the haughty, aloof mask she had become so sick of wearing when in the company of others. It was with this mask she greeted Avele Swifteye's skiff as it set down in the fore hangar bay. Unlike the stuffy, human-populated aft hangar the fore hangar was cool and had no lack of space.

"Captain," Izuru grasped the corsair's forearm briefly.

"I tell you these eyes have seen much but not so much as outright war between the craftworlders," Avele shook his head glumly. "Thank the gods we were not docked with one of the ships when…"

"Macha did this, and Macha will pay I swear it." Izuru smiled as Keladi appeared behind the corsair, "greetings, little one, it is good to see you safe."

"Likewise, Captain Swifteye was most kind," Keladi made the sign of Ulthwé out of respect.

"A decision must be made with haste, Captain, come" Izuru fell into step beside the corsair. "You are responsible for the crew of this ship now, their safety as well as that of the humans."

"Of course."

"The human's commanding officer is Brigadier Vorbeck he is on the bridge with his staff currently. I suggest you make yourself known to him; it would also be wise to keep him informed of the developments."

"And where will you be?"

"I must face Macha, after all she has done I cannot let the massacre of our people and the humans go unanswered for."

"Do not face Macha," Avele said imploringly. "She will _kill_ you."

"I will not run."

"You are an honourable fool, ranger."

"Rather that than a despicable, petty politician that murders indiscriminately all to spite an enemy."

"You play into Macha's hands."

"If it ensures your survival I shall willingly go down that path," Izuru said firmly. "Keladi, Captain Swifteye shall keep you safe, obey his orders but do not trust him."

"Hah!" Avele snorted in amusement. "Excellent advice, I must take my leave now," he clasped Izuru's arm and smiled. "Fare thee well, ranger of Alaitoc, may the gods look down upon you favourably."

"And you, corsair," Izuru nodded stoically.

"Did you mean it, that I should not trust the corsair?" Keladi asked once Avele had left through one of the portals lining the hangar wall.

"Walk by my side just for a moment," Izuru linked an arm through Keladi's and together the two walked through the empty hangar watching the golden expanse outside the Grace's shield gently swirling this way and that. "The balance of power in this galaxy is shifting our people rule it no longer yet have deluded ourselves into believing we still do. Times change, alliances shift, beings must step up and lead when others will not. I understand you have not yet reached adulthood, Keladi Lethidia, but you are ready to take up the mantle of the ranger in my stead. Beings like you and Avele Swifteye, Brigadier Vorbeck too are our last hope, lest the darkness of the Eye of Terror consume us all. Go to Cadia and seek out the enemies of Chaos and She Who Thirsts."

"I will not leave your side," Keladi said in a little voice.

Touched, Izuru smiled warmly down at Keladi, "such quiet courage shall carry the day and bring us to victory, but you must flee from Macha's grasp for she will hurt me through you and I will not see any more harm come to you." Taking Keladi by the shoulders Izuru kissed her on the forehead and whispered softly, "you are family."

* * *

A sharp elbowing awoke me suddenly, "sorry, lad," Aimo said.

"Time is it?" I burped loudly and checked my wrist for a non-existent chrono.

"Can you not? Azar tossed his head to one side and spat nicotine-laced spit on a tiny spot of deck not occupied by legs, bodies, and heads.

"Can you not what?" I yawned.

"Not burp."

"Not burp what?"

"Not burp loudly," Azar said insolently.

"Right Azar we're gonna step outside for a few minutes," I rolled up my sleeves and got to my feet.

"Whoa! Whoa, Azar," Gale rushed to hold back Azar who had picked up his Lecta.

"You want your face stamped in huh? You want to battle?"

I drew my Moses, Azar levelled his Lecta.

"You two want to give each other grief do it in private," Gale snapped pushing the barrel of Azar's Lecta away from me.

"F'you want to battle for real you gotta get a real weapon, not that obsolete popgun," Kat unhooked an olive grey egg from where it was clipped to an ammunition pouch and tossed it to me. "Here, use this."

I caught the hand grenade, nearly dropping it in the process but managing to hang onto it. I tossed the frag up into the air a few times, catching it, still looking at Azar. "Nah, I'm gonna find a Lecta then me and Cookie are gonna have a duel—"

"Stow it, Corporal," Gale interrupted. "Azar listen, we're gonna ditty-bop back to the kitchen but first you're going to give Corporal Larn your Lecta and ammo."

"Aw, Sarn't!" Azar spat then muttered, "Fucking rear-echelon…"

"Only rear-echelon motherfucker here is you, Cookie," Aimo stabbed a finger at Azar. "You weren't there on Nemtess, you didn't get any trigger time, any confirmed kills. We've all got more TI than you, 'cept Molke but ain't a grunt yet."

"Cough up, Azar," Gale glowered at him.

Muttering obscenities Azar thrust the Lecta barrel-first at me. "Oops, sorry, Corporal," he said, deliberately jabbing me in the belly with the muzzle. I took the weapon from Azar's grip and stuck out a hand for the belt kit. Azar dropped it at my feet.

"Azar, we're moving most kosh," Gale slung his own Lecta and led the sullen Azar away. "Keep the brewer," he called back to us.

"That cook's a right dwad," Leo said once they had gone.

"The mean one yeah, 'ole Breezy's alright, long as you keep the bottle out of his hand," Kat sniffed his cold tea.

"Can't believe he had Larn figured for a lifer-type," Aimo snorted. "Couldn't be more wrong about him, huh?" he turned to me, expecting a sincere agreement; I made no remark however. Azar's belt kit was heavy with loaded magazines, closer inspection revealed they were all fully loaded and the Lecta still had grease in the barrel.

"Talkin' out of his arse he was," I said fastening the clasp around my waist.

"What was he planning on doin' with this then?" Aimo lifted a large combat knife up by its leather scabbard from where it was attached to my belt.

"Dunno," I grunted in reply.

"Maybe he wanted some gold teeth, y'know cut 'em out," Kat mimed levering out a tooth.

"I've seen someone do that on Nereus, 'cept they used some pliers," Aimo said dully. "Poor fella he took 'em from was still alive."

"Why are we talking about ripping teeth from mouths?" Ral looked to me expecting I would put a stop to that talk. I however was trying to get back to sleep, Kat's grenade in my pocket and my new Lecta resting in my lap.

"Bunch of savages," Ral tutted.

"Maybe he was after scalps not teeth," Aimo suggested. "Sounds like something Cyrano's mob might do."

Hearing Cyrano's name mentioned I remembered he was still down in the hangar alone. "Speaking of…" I rose, mumbling to myself.

"Eh, you what?" Kat noticed I was stepping off somewhere.

"Do me, would ye?"

"Yeah," Kat obliged my unlit cigarette. Sticking it in my mouth I slung my Lecta and picked my way over the sea of legs.

"Where you going?" Aimo shouted after me.

"Grab Cyrano," I said vaguely. When Aimo made to follow I waved him off, "nah, mate, do it myself."

The strain was starting to get to me now. I sought isolation, somewhere quiet away from the chatter and the irritating bravado that dominated guard lifestyle. With the lockdown lifted I ditty-bopped down to the lower decks past gangs of men chatting, smoking, eating whatever meagre compo they had left over from Nemtess. There was a myth that smoking helped clear the lungs and settle the stomach, alleviating stress as a side effect, but the truth was it tasted disgusting and did nothing to calm my fraught nerves. I did it because everyone else did.

Eventually I found my way back down to the hangar, it portals were unsealed and allowed me access. With the takeover successful there were only a few men left sitting idly doing nothing. Cyrano, instantly recognisable in his fancy cavalry uniform, sat alone and far from the rest, he was busy writing on a crumpled piece of paper and did not look up when I approached.

"Alright, how ye gettin' on?" I whispered crouching down opposite him.

"My boy, you find yourself in good health?"

"Yeah me and the lads came through alright," I grinned resting my arms on my knees. "Just wanted some quiet?"

"Mmm, I find it hard to write on Nemtess, and I promised I would."

"Parents?" I glanced down at the neat, ordered lines Cyrano had written carefully.

"Wife," he smiled fondly down at the letter.

"Eh, lucky fella," I scratched my greasy head, unsure whether I was allowed to ask who she was.

"Her name is Ilona, I met her on a forty-eight hour pass on Haven, and we got married. It was a last minute decision. I jumped off the troopship, ran and found her, then we went to the nearest altar and got married just like that, no-one else there it was just us. I had to leave her immediately afterwards, I was shipping out. When I return to her I want it to be just the two of us, no noisy war disrupting our lives. I hate noise and big crowds; hate it."

"I've been in hospital on Haven, didn't see any of the city, weather was nice though."

"Mmm," Cyrano folded the letter neatly and stowed it in the breast pocket of his tunic. "And you?"

"Me what?"

"You must have someone waiting for you at home, or elsewhere…"

"Nah, parents at home on Jumael."

"You miss them?"

"Oh yeah," I rubbed underneath my eye with a thumb absent-mindedly.

"You got a big family?"

"Mum, dad, that's all."

"Jumael was it?"

"Warm summers, cold winters, no war. S'pose you could say it's boring," I shrugged.

"No war, it sounds like a treasure," Cyrano's eyes twinkled. "Alesia, my home was once a paradise, and then the Imperium came for what lay underground, and little by little they killed the planet, raping it for its minerals leaving another death world with the population crammed into hives. Have you ever seen a hive world, seen what our people do to their homes?"

"Agripinaa," I recalled, "never seen anything like it at all, everything was underground. I guess they couldn't build up so they built down."

"Insanity," Cyrano leant forwards, a fierce look in his eye. "My boy, you must find something that is yours then make an island to shield yourself from the storm, for if you do not hold onto that which is dear to you then you will be swept away and lost."

"I read you, Cyrano," I said, I was dead serious about it too.

"You love your home, your family? Then do not let them be subjugated by oppressors as I allowed my home to be."

"I'm just one person. I can't do anything to stop it."

"Oh but you can!" Cyrano poked me in the shoulder. "You can! What you did on Nemtess was solid proof that one single being can make a difference in this madness."

"You weren't there," I said flatly.

"It does not matter, even the lowliest Imperial Guardsman has a spark, and yours shines so brightly."

"I'm not this big hero you think I am, Cyrano, I didn't do it 'cause of duty or anything, it was 'cause they were killing my friends and I wanted to make them stop."

Cyrano sighed and sat back, "do you know what I fear most on the battlefield? It is not the artillery, the tanks, the barbed wire, the mud, or even the rats, but the small, unassuming and completely unremarkable individuals who are forgotten in the storm. The fact that a boy with nothing more than luck and what have you survives to wreak bloody vengeance on the enemy… that is really quite terrifying."

"I'm not a scary person."

"Yes, you are," Cyrano pointed at my face. "I will tell you why, it is that look in your eye."

"You're wrong, Cyrano."

"Or maybe I am wrong. Maybe your continued survival can be attributed to your lack of growth," Cyrano added slyly. "Such a short man would be laughed at by the enemy by the way his helmet hangs over his boots."

"Hmph," I snorted, feeling a smile breaking out. "I wouldn't say I'm short just compacted, Aimo's short."

"How tall is he?"

"Nah, he's short 'cause the end of his tour's coming up."

"Ah, the lucky fellow, he has a woman?"

"He's got a wife yeah, little one too."

"Aah, he is one step ahead of I drat," Cyrano, in good humour now balled a fist and swung it playfully. "I tell you on our next leave we must find you a suitable woman, one with good teats."

"Might have to yeah," I nodded in agreement.

Cyrano's jovial expression faltered for a moment, his eyes flicked past me and settled on a point over my shoulder. "Most interesting…"

"You what?" I twisted first one way then the other to see what had caught Cyrano's attention. A figure in dark, hooded robes, unnoticed by anyone else was moving fast across the hangar in the direction of one of the narrow, bulbous shuttles.

"I saw a light and then…" Cyrano's eyes narrowed. "That is the one that carried you from Nemtess."

"Izuru Numerial," I said off-handedly, watching the figure move up the lowered ramp.

"You know her name?"

"Pfft, she tried to kill me, I tried to kill her back, didn't work either way."

"Go to her!"

"No, can't do that."

Cyrano grabbed a bunch of my jacket and jerked me towards him. "You will go to her, throw yourself at her feet and thank her for your life; you ungrateful shit."

"But it's a Stickie, it's enemy," I protested.

"Such a selfless act cannot go unheeded, go to her!"

"You don't know the half of it. She should be throwing herself at my feet."

"Why?"

"Saved her life on Grendel, knife wound, gave her a blood transfusion for it."

"Then your lives are bound in blood, all the more reason for you to thank her dearly; now go to her! Go before she leaves."

Hitching my Lecta higher on my shoulder I trudged reluctantly over to the shuttle and peered up the ramp to a poorly-lit interior. "Stickie?" I called softly, glancing over at Cyrano in the distance. He had folded his arms and was watching me carefully. Withering under his scrutiny I boarded the shuttle and found myself in an empty cargo bay stretching the length and breadth of the ship, at the far end a grav-lift led upwards. Scouring the shadows I found no hidden figure or freakish glowing eyes, it left only the bridge. Resisting the urge to call out, I was loathe to make any noise on unfamiliar ground, I stepped into the shaft and let it carry me upwards towards the lit bridge. The instant my head cleared the opening a rock-hard object connected with my nose, the force of it bowling me over sideways. Lights danced in front of my eyes, blood began to run down from my nostrils. Through the pain and my streaming eyes I saw a tightly clenched fist and a furious face looking down at me. "T'was not wise to sneak up on a ranger, human," a blurry Izuru Numerial snarled. "I heard you before you even entered the shuttle."

Holding my hands up in surrender I wiped the sticky blood from my upper lip and pinched the bridge of my nose tightly, "Cyrano said I had to thank you for saving me life. I'm sorry I shot you earlier, it was an accident."

"I do not hold it against you," Izuru turned away and sat down at the helm, busying herself with the ships' controls. "But you should not have come looking for me."

"And I weren't going to it's all been and done, only Cyrano said I had to," I said nasally. "Ow," I winced, wiping my eyes on my sleeves. "Don't ye think we've 'urt each other enough?"

"A lesson learnt."

"So can I go now?" I struggled to my feet my Lecta banging against my thigh.

"No, stay a moment," Izuru turned in her seat and passed me a silk handkerchief. "I would have use of your services."

"Ta," I jammed it up my nose. "Yer in a hurry I get it, but I got questions."

"Another time, I have something very important to tell you, I need you to listen," Izuru's cold expression softened momentarily. "I would have you watch over an associate of mine, she has red hair, wears a blue scarf, and has only one eye, her name is Keladi Lethidia; she does not speak Gothic but that is irrelevant. There is another, he is a corsair by the name of Avele Swifteye and I do not trust him for he is a self-confessed rogue and a skirt-chaser; Keladi would not be safe with him."

"Why me?" I shifted uncomfortably.

"She is not yet fully matured and I worry the corsair would take advantage of her in certain ways, you must observe her from a distance and keep her safe from harm."

"Don't understand…"

"However distasteful I find you humans, some are better than others at keeping their promises."

"Well don't look at me, I can't, I'm not trustworthy."

"Then perhaps we might have to trust one another once more."

"I never trusted you."

"I do not ask for your trust, only you keep your promise."

"Can't guarantee it," I shook my head.

"That will have to do, but be warned of the consequences of breaking an oath, they are dire."

"Fine, I'll find yer friend," I pulled out the handkerchief and tried to pass it back.

"Keep it," Izuru held up a hand, rather not looking at the bloody rag I held.

"Right," I turned and made to leave the bridge.

"You have grown since Platis."

"Uh?" I looked back and saw the sadness in Izuru's eyes.

"There is another topic I would discuss," she swallowed and looked at the deck around her feet. "It concerns Platis."

"What about it?"

"I, I returned to Platis not long ago and…" she broke off and took a deep breath, as if recounting it was difficult for her. "Returned to the crash site where your escape pod landed. It had snowed heavily and it took considerable effort but…"

I waited on tenterhooks.

"I recovered the body of your officer, Captain Doron. He had been preserved by the snow. We sent his body to the Imperium and they returned it to his family. He was given a burial with full honours," Izuru's voice cracked, she seemed on the verge of tears. "Not a day goes by that I wish I had not pulled the trigger and hunted you like an animal," she held a hand over her nose.

I felt my stoic mask begin to break. Nodding a few times I tried to turn my head away so Izuru would not see my distress. "Nah, don't mean nothing, didn't know the man well but…" Doron was my last link to my old life; his death had begun it all really. I dearly wanted to hate the Stickie for it, I really did, but I could not, not after everything.

"I do not expect you to forgive me," Izuru said, her head bowed in shame. "But I must leave now, I go to walk through the valley of the shadow of death, that is a human saying though I do not know where it originates."

Pity, I felt nothing but pity for her then. "You're gonna kill Macha aren't ye?" I went over to Izuru and, kneeling at her side, looked up at her; I had the Moses in my hand. "You need backup?"

Overcome with a mixture of surprise and dismay Izuru's moist eyes focused on the butt of the handgun held out in offer to her, not understanding what I was saying. Then she looked past the weapon and down at me.

"You know the saying when you can't walk you crawl, and when you can't crawl you find someone to carry you? Well you carried me on your back and that makes you a grunt, and grunts help their pals out when they're in trouble."

The corners of Izuru's mouth twitched, touched at the gesture she smiled widely, her eyes lighting up in an expression of warm affection. Her lined face had years of stress and worry banished in that moment. It was like she was a different person entirely, younger-looking and without the weariness that diminished her looks. Reaching out she gently took the Moses from my fingers.

"Say the word, we'll be there," I said, I meant it.

"You cannot, no human is allowed to set foot on the Craftworld," Izuru said sadly. "It is written in the tenets."

"Alright, you got eleven in the mag, one up the spout. If all else fails, give her one right between the eyes from me and the lads."

"Thank you, Arvin James Larn," Izuru, beaming, stood up and extended a hand to me. "Will you accept my hand in friendship?"

"The hand of mateship ought to do," I clasped her hand in both of mine. "Good luck, I'm sure I'll see ye again sometime, ye turn up like a bad egg."

Izuru laughed, an unfamiliar but altogether not unpleasant sound, "May the gods watch over you."

"You need 'em more than me," I grinned, turning on my heel and departing the bridge. Once clear of the shuttle I heard the engines pick up and eventual lift-off, Cyrano was there waiting. Together we left the hangar to rejoin our mates; I did not look back.


	8. Chapter 7

**The Arabulucu, The Webway**

 _Once more into the enemy's camp I venture,_ Izuru thought, guiding the Solonae skiff through the entry portal leading into the cavernous network of hangar bays in the belly of the battleship. Izuru had not been hailed by the gatemaster and was admitted without challenge to the ship-wide circuit, so vast it could accept corvettes and light frigates. Surrounding the larger vessels swarms of fighters patrolled in squadrons high above the decks, keeping vigil from afar. The ongoing silence made Izuru nervous. Macha had to be watching, waiting ready to strike. Even when Izuru set the skiff down and killed the drive there was still no welcoming committee, no troop of aspect warriors surrounding her ship with raised weapons; the hangar was strangely deserted.

"Where are you?" Izuru stayed sitting at the helm staring straight ahead, scrutinising the docked fighters and the gantries overhead for any signs of ambush. Realising her mouth had dried she swallowed hastily and headed down to the rear hatch. Something was very wrong, no machine-singers worked at their stations, the roar of plasma cutters was absent as was their customary shower of sparks. Izuru had never once known a hangar to be in total silence, there was always activity be it morning, noon, or during the sleep cycle. Presented with such an obvious ploy to draw her into a trap Izuru was sorely tempted to back out and attempt a different means of entry, her ranger senses were warning her not to tread the path Macha had laid out for her, but Ulthwé and her children called. Izuru was torn between rushing to Ilic and Korsarro and staying away for fear that keeping the twins too close would only make it easier for Macha to hurt her and them. But if they were hurt due to Izuru's neglect then she would not be able to live with herself. _My sons…_ Izuru missed them so much, her heart ached for their presence; there was no question about it. _I will find you, my little sparks, for evil cannot triumph over love._

Palming the hatch release Izuru noticed an instrument held in a bracket by her feet. The runes above it advised its use only in an emergency when the hatch failed to open for any reason. At one end of the long handle was a flat square blade at the other was a claw and hammer, similar in appearance to an entrenching tool but crossed with an industrial implement. Unfastening the shovel Izuru stuck it into her belt. She had not planned on fighting fair anyway.

Senses outstretched Izuru strode boldly across the deck towards the faraway portals, Larn's Moses held in her hand. _Bless you, Larn_ , _I wish you safe from further harm. You have earned the right to a life free from fear and oppression, friend,_ Izuru's heart swelled thinking of the plucky human. He lacked the indomitable powered armour of the Space Marines and the guile and grace of her people, yet even after a life-threatening wound he still got back up on his feet seemingly none the worse for wear. _A body of iron_ , Izuru thought affectionately, _but a good heart._

All but one of the portals leading out of the hangar were sealed, it was as Izuru feared. The path she found herself on was dark, narrow, and winding with nothing branching off. Sensing the portal seal behind her Izuru held the Moses low in both hands and started into the darkness. A muggy air unnatural to the ships' environment made her sweat underneath her robes, already her itching skin was irritating her; the smell she gave off alone would betray her to Macha.

 _Show yourself, do not hide amongst the shadows like a monster from a children's nightmare,_ Izuru blinked slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the near-pitch darkness. _Is Macha here, or does she await me on Ulthwé?_ Shutting her senses down, Izuru opened her mind to the deafening roar of the Warp and pushed her mental boundaries outwards. Almost immediately she heard a primal shriek, one of insatiable hunger. Pulling her mind back from the abyss to safety Izuru clapped a hand over her mouth stifling a scream. The terror had detected Izuru's presence with frightening speed and had reached out, nearly catching her, if she had just lingered a little longer she would have been devoured; that was enough to nearly send her into hysterics. Holding a hand over her heart Izuru leant against the bulkhead listening to the hammering inside her head, _do not take the perils of the Warp lightly, fool, it will be your end!_

Disheartened at her failure she continued. Before long the tunnel widened out, she smelt the lighter air, less stuffy in the open space. Izuru was deep in the underbelly of the ship which was not quite the size of a small moon, though even it paled in size when measured next to a craftworld. A forest of pillars, their bodies thicker than the thickest tree trunk, stretched away from her in all directions reaching high into nothingness. A fine mist, out on place and gently swirling masked many Webway gates, small in size and spread out across the endless chamber.

" _Behold the Duchess of Asteri Reach."_ A mocking voice made Izuru flatten herself against a pillar. Macha's gentle laugh was bodiless and seemed to come from everywhere. " _Or are you simply a child of my enemies, lost, alone, and with no-one to turn to?"_

Keeping silent Izuru squeezed her eyes shut and strained to detect where the voice was originating.

" _Half-caste, animal, cur; such abomination would not have been tolerated_ _under my roof."_

 _Where are you?_ Izuru remained still holding her breath.

" _Why have you come? The ending to this story is written, I have seen it. It is your reckoning; I am it."_

Reaching around the pillar Izuru edged her head out, but Macha had fallen silent.

" _Too smitten with the prey? You and that 'father-of-mine' betrayed our race, tore down everything that we stood for. We are the rulers of the galaxy by birthright, it our destiny to rule the stars for were they not once ours to command? They bowed to our will – we commanded them to live and die and they obeyed."_

 _Tyrant,_ Izuru loathed what was spewing from Macha's mouth.

" _With father gone_ _you are all that is left. Let it be quick, offer yourself to me and I will grant you a merciful death for you will find that I am kind."_

"You father was our last hope _,"_ Izuru called. "Without him our race is doomed to extinction!"

"HE ABANDONED US TO DIE!" Macha flew at Izuru from the darkness, a wraithbone sword in her hands. Raising the shovel Izuru dug her heels in and tensed, meeting Macha's blade before it connected with her shoulder. "AND HE DARED CALL YOU DAUGHTER WHEN HE KNEW OF MY EXISTENCE!"

Breaking the lock Macha retreated, in a heartbeat she melted away into the darkness like a spectre; silence returned. Izuru stood there stunned – it had happened so fast – then gathered herself, hastening in the direction Macha had gone but taking a parallel path.

" _Your loyalties are conflicted. Your feelings for your human allies are strong. I see it in the weapons you carry: crude, primitive killing tools, unsuitable for noble Lyanden-born but to a lowborn outcast…"_

Halting Izuru felt her palms begin to sweat, she could tell Macha was moving by the sound of her voice, but when she next spoke she too had stopped.

" _Tell me, why do you forgo the blade?"_ She was moving again, closeby. "Why don't you draw your SWORD?" Macha lunged around the pillar, stabbing at Izuru with the point but meeting stone instead of flesh.

Backing away Izuru swung downwards aiming for Macha's collarbone. "I CHOOSE A DIFFERENT PATH!"

"The path of the outcast!" Macha snarled, deftly blocked the blade with the vambraces of her free hand. It grated loudly before she threw it off and came on the attack this time aiming at Izuru's head. "FIGHT ME WITH HONOUR!"

"Your hypocrisy blinds you!" Izuru dived away behind a pillar putting it inbetween her and Macha's swinging sword. For her effort there was an echoing screech as the finely sharpened wraithbone glanced off of the stone.

"AND YOUR LOVE FOR THE HUMANS BLINDS YOU!" Macha screamed, curving her sword around the corner to slash at Izuru but finding nought but thin air. It was Izuru's turn to break away this time.

"ROUND-EAR, ROUND-EAAAAAAR!" Macha's tirade boomed off the invisible walls and ceiling.

Running full-pelt Izuru glimpsed a speck in the corner of her eye running in the same direction. _Wait,_ she skidded to a halt. Macha had entered one of the Webway portals, that was how she was getting around unseen and unheard, _fight me with honour really!_

Izuru was ready when Macha came next, appearing almost right next to her. "You destroyed my family," Macha said, quieter than before but with no less vehemence. "Now I shall destroy yours!"

"I will kill you if you touch them!" Izuru spat, her spittle flying in Macha's face, "Saarania tried and I broke her body and gave it to the worms to feed on!" Launching herself forwards she head-butted Macha, her forehead slammed into Macha's nose, a crunch and a bark of pain followed. Staggering away, Macha leapt over backwards trying a horizontal slash at Izuru's eyes but misjudging the range.

"You crossed swords with the wrong mother," Izuru darted after Macha raising the Moses and aiming at her back. "You have never known what it is to love, to call a being bond-mate, son or daughter." Squeezing the trigger she fired, the ear-splitting thunderclap ringing her ears. In desperation Macha held her sword behind her back as if she believed she could parry the shot, it did not work as she intended, the shot knocked her sword into her back with the force of a sledgehammer and glanced upwards slicing into her neck and hitting the underside of her jaw.

"It hurts does it not?" Izuru shouted. "Even the mightiest beings can be brought down by the crudest weapons," but Macha had fled into the Webway. "Very well," she found the closest portal and followed.

Izuru left the portal somewhere completely different, gone were the pillars, she was standing on the edge of a circular amphitheatre on the highest tier. The rows below her were occupied by hundreds, thousands of cloaked and hooded beings facing down into the arena holding tiny sphere of light in their hands. Ringing the circular space facing outwards was Macha's guard squadron, the Shadow Spectres, sixteen in total and all armed with tall pikes tipped with sharpened wraithbone. Macha herself had vanished.

Descending the steps Izuru noticed the audience were all clad in robes of black and had drawn cowls concealing their faces, the custom was native to Ulthwé and unfamiliar to her. Their collective silence was unnerving. A narrow causeway bridging a river separated the arena from the stands, the moment Izuru crossed it the light spheres flew from where they rested and formed as one above the arena throwing the audience into darkness and illuminating the centre of the chamber.

A pair of crossed pikes barring Izuru's way parted seamlessly then, as she took to the floor the Shadow Spectres turned, as one, and faced inwards forming a cordon.

"The Warp has a strong effect on the minds of the weak," Macha, arms spread wide, feet together, flew down from the darkness and landed gently on the other side of the arena. Her mouth did not move when she spoke, Izuru heard her nonetheless. "Did you believe what you saw?"

"I believe you are a hypocrite and a being without honour," Izuru said coldly. "The Warp cannot fool me of that." Now that Macha had said it she looked different to the Macha Izuru had crossed swords with, her nose was undamaged and bore no marks from where Izuru had headbutted her.

"Then divest yourself of your weapons, pick up a sword, and let us meet in honourable combat," Macha, with dramatic flair, pulled her cape from her shoulders, swung it over her head and tossed it to one of the Shadow Spectres; her headdress quickly followed. Beneath her cape a sword hung from her waist, drawing the blade she unfastened her belt holding the sheath and dropped it. Bereft of a sword Izuru nevertheless laid the spade down, straightened back up slowly and removed her outer robes.

Macha slashed her sword in front of her and pointed the blade at Izuru, "the gun?"

Izuru caught a tiny movement in her peripheral vision, the Shadow Spectres tightening their grip on their pikes ready to lunge at her, though the circular floor was vast there was nowhere the long pikes could not reach. Slowly Izuru drew the Moses and pointed it up at the ceiling with her finger off the trigger. She then engaged the safety and passed it and the spade to the nearest Shadow Spectre. Doing so she smelt the weapon and discerned that it had not been fired for it lacked the smell of propellant and was cold to the touch. _A powerful illusion but let us see how skilled you are without the protection of your mind, Macha._

Hearing the soft swish of a flying object Izuru visualised it in her head from sound, reached up and caught the thrown sword in her right hand. It took her a moment to realise it but she had caught it blade-end rather than by the grip; the pain came swiftly. Macha, amused at the mistake, bowed deeply all the while wearing a mocking expression. Clenching her bleeding hand tight shut Izuru shifted the sword to her left hand, the weaker one, and bowed to her opponent.

"Should you ask for quarter…" Macha slashed at the air once more.

"None will be asked or given," Izuru replied, raising her sword hand, her other laid flat on the blade.

"Then our lives are in the gods' hands," Macha adopted her stance, mirroring Izuru's and waited.

A whip-like crack sounded, signalling the combatants to begin. In silence Macha fixed her gaze on Izuru and paced to the left before switching direction and pacing to the right whilst steadily drawing closer to her. With a cry she lunged, the point of her blade aiming for Izuru's throat. Backpedalling Izuru avoided the lunge by a hairs breadth. Still staring at her with a stony gaze, her mouth a thin slit, Macha stepped forwards suddenly, flicking her sword around behind her, transferring it from hand to hand in less than a second. The feint worked, Izuru tensed, her guard readying for a blow that never came and fell prey to Macha's next attack. This time Macha leapt, utilising the point again but aimed higher at Izuru's head which the latter easily avoided. The follow-up, a diagonal slash aimed behind at Izuru's back connected. Izuru began a ploy then by crying out, wanting Macha to think her sword had drawn blood – it hadn't – only the clothes on her back had been slashed open.

"First blood… or was it self-inflicted?" Macha whispered, cutting the air with a loud swish. With no pause she ran sideways baiting Izuru then changed direction, thrusting at her kidneys. Izuru knocked the blade aside and tried to pull it towards her.

"Ah-ah," Macha flicked upwards, nicking Izuru on the chin, "Honour amongst our people."

Touching her chin briefly Izuru waded in, hacking at Macha, Macha however skipped away, spinning gracefully up into the air before coming to land on her feet, hand on hip, one foot behind the other.

"What is honour to you, Macha?" Izuru spun her blade around her, _come and get me_.

"Honour is the blossoming of our species…" Macha smiled arrogantly, "And the deaths of our enemies."

"Did honour drive you to kill our own people? They will decry you, you will not be loved."

"A farseer does not concern herself with the opinions of the common folk. I shall become a queen, beautiful and terrible; all shall love me and despair."

"Then you will never truly be a ruler, rather a dictator, a tyrant. What would your father think?"

Macha's superior smile faltered, it was with a deadly voice that she next spoke, "Do not presume to compare me with him," she moved forward a pace. "You will find I am not easily BAITED!" she charged, extending her sword arm to its greatest length.

Twisting her body out of harm's way Izuru kicked the sword away and aimed a backhand slash at Macha's face, the very tip of her blade slicing cleanly through Macha's cheek. "Even out of the mind you are just as easily bled!"

Her momentum carrying her away Macha replied to Izuru with a swipe at her side, this one breaking skin as well as cloth. "I always wondered how a half-breed bled," Macha said, her ego soured. Pointing her sword at Izuru she cocked her head to one side, "does it bleed like us or like an animal?"

Something was wrong, the cut was shallow yet Izuru felt her side burning. Unknowingly Macha had cut into the old knife wound, a tender spot that still gave Izuru trouble with infrequent jabs of pain and flashbacks.

"Is your hand alright?" Saarania, appearing in Macha's place asked. They could have been sisters.

"Is your hand alright?" Saarania became Macha again adopting the same mocking tone.

Refusing to react, Izuru attacked again.

"My my, you disappoint me," Macha broke the blade lock and forced Izuru on the defensive. "Too much human blood in you has made you weak in body and mind. I am the species perfected. You are nothing, just an ugly tube-born experiment with nothing to your name."

Izuru's expression of intense concentration broke, breaking out into one of confusion and dismay.

"Oh!" Macha's blade touched Izuru's, "You did not know!"

"Know what?" Izuru tossed Macha's sword away and began circling.

Macha did likewise. "Project Genus."

"Project Genus?"

Smirking, Macha met Izuru's blade. Izuru beat it away only to find it at her throat. "Truly it seems you have been kept in ignorance all of your life. How does it feel to know you were never loved?"

Grabbing Macha's blade with her bleeding hand Izuru jerked it towards her and swung her sword. Macha made a sound, 'ah', and deflected the blade with her vambrace. Izuru, undeterred, rammed the jewel-encrusted pommel up underneath Macha's chin slamming her mouth shut with a loud clack of teeth meeting one another. Choking Macha retreated sensing the initiative pass to her enemy who was wide-eyed and panting as she chased her down. Taking advantage of her lowered guard, Izuru raised her sword above her head in both hands, heedless of the blood running down her wrists and prepared to decapitate Macha. Before her blade could fall a sudden pain lanced through her left thigh forcing her down on one knee.

"No!" Macha gasped, her shocked expression turning to anger as one of her guards stabbed Izuru from behind.

"Be swift," Izuru glared up at her defiantly. "Dishonourable…"

Striding around behind Izuru, Macha made to strike her down but turned and drove her sword through the neck of the Shadow Spectre whose pike stuck out of Izuru's leg. Forcing it in all the way up to the hilt Macha drove it upwards, splitting the Spectre's skull in two, ripping it out of the crown in a bloody mess and kicking the falling body away. None of his comrades moved or spoke.

"One of my guards…" Macha said shakily.

"Do it," Izuru said. "You have won."

"I will," Macha muttered, holding her blood-soaked blade, specked with grey brain matter level with Izuru's eyes, ready to deliver the fatal cut. In an instant Macha reversed her weapon and brought the pommel down on Izuru's head, the latter blacking out instantly.

* * *

 **The Grace of The Mother**

Colonel Zandyke, dismayed to find the bridge a bloodbath awaited Major Lomas's explanation. "Well, Major, what were the rounds we heard just now?"

"The uh, the bridge crew uh, some of them fired on us as we made entry…" Major Lomas, white-faced and mumbling, said.

"You only took control of the bridge just now or earlier?"

"Earlier, sir."

"So there were two separate engagements?"

"Yes, sir."

"In the initial engagement you suffered four wounded but in doing so you took the bridge? What started off the second action, what were you engaging if the bridge crew were already in custody?"

"Uh one of the corporals…"

"One of your NCOs opened fire on the prisoners?"

"No, sir."

"Then what made you open fire on the prisoners?"

"I had to get the Stickie commander's identity, get him bagged."

"So you started executing them one by one?"

"No, sir, I ordered one of the NCOs to put a Stickie under threat of death."

"And you ordered the NCO to shoot?"

"Yes, sir."

"And that started off the engagement?"

"Well uh, yes, sir but the NCO did not shoot the prisoner as ordered; he struck him with his sidearm and suffered accidental discharge in the process."

"And you interpreted this as enemy fire?"

"I… yes, sir. At the same time one of the Stickies in black was shot dead by a crewman with a concealed weapon, we responded, couldn't take the risk, they might have been carrying more weapons on their persons."

"I'm seeing a huge amount of brass scattered around and only a single weapon recovered," Zandyke said coldly. "Do you think you were justified unloading into the crowd?"

"Sir, the men…"

"There will be an investigation into this, Major you have not heard the last of this." Turning away Colonel Zandyke went over to Brigadier Vorbeck and told him Major Lomas' story.

"Fucking disgrace," Vorbeck said under his breath. "I expected the major to properly impress the rules of engagement not let his men fly off the hook like that, and now this!" he gestured at the wrecks the fleet was slowly overtaking. "We were supposed to be their allies, what the hell happened?"

The question was directed at no-one in particular. Alongside Vorbeck were the two colonels', Creel and Zandyke, Captain Glowna, and Major Lomas who fell under the sharp gaze of the prowling sergeant major. The officers were all aware how trapped they were now, pressed in the middle of a fleet, any ship in which could open fire on them without warning.

"Well if it's a consolation, sir, we still have a crew to man the bridge," Colonel Creel pointed out.

A commotion outside the bridge drew the officers' attention.

"Sarn't Major find out what's going on out there," Colonel Zandyke said.

The sergeant major left and was back almost instantly. "Sir, two Stickies approached the section guarding the bridge accessway, one of them wants to speak to Brigadier Vorbeck."

"Brigadier, two Stickies, one of them wants to speak to you," Zandyke relayed to Vorbeck.

"Send them in – two you say?"

"Sarn't Major?"

The sergeant major nodded, "yes, sir, one male, one female."

"And the female wants to speak to Brigadier Vorbeck?"

"No, sir, the male said he wanted to speak to Brigadier Vorbeck personally. The female said nothing."

"Alright thank you, Sarn't Major, have them brought in," said Vorbeck. To his surprise the female Stickie was not whom he had been expecting. The male also was a stranger. Both xenos were brought in closely watched by Nerians with automatics; some had even affixed their weapons' spike bayonets.

"Greetings, Brigadier Vorbeck," the male Stickie, tall and clad in white mistakenly addressed Colonel Zandyke.

"Either of them armed?" Colonel Zandyke ignored the gothic and spoke instead to the corporal in charge of the guard detail.

"Only the male, sir." The corporal slung his bayonetted autogun and handed Zandyke a bone-coloured laspistol.

"Very well, Brigadier?" Zandyke turned to Vorbeck who nodded. "Dismissed, Corporal."

"Sir." The guards departed leaving the two Stickies.

Vorbeck eyed the Stickie in white and green carefully, his attire was unlike any of the others, but the fact that he went bareheaded meant he was someone of authority. His companion, shorter and red-headed though still over six foot, had not said a word. Vorbeck noted with curiosity her damaged eye.

"Your pardon, I seemed to have mistaken you for someone else, I am unfamiliar with human rank insignia—" The xeno was then cut off again this time by Vorbeck.

"I am Brigadier Vorbeck," he said.

"Ah, most apologies, Brigadier, I am Avele Swifteye, captain of corsairs."

"You're a pirate…" Zandyke muttered.

"Privateer, please. I sail – sailed – under the banner of the Craftworld Biel-Tan."

"That will be all, gentlemen," Vorbeck said. Once the officers had moved out of earshot Vorbeck addressed the Stickie. "What do you want?"

"I am a colleague of Izuru Numerial, you know her?"

"Yes, but I do not know you."

"As I said I am Captain Avele Swifteye, my companion is Keladi Lethidia, protégé of Izuru Numerial," Avele bowed, Keladi followed suit.

"Tell me," Vorbeck folded his arms and glanced over his shoulder. "I was under the impression a truce between my people and yours was in effect."

"Ah, well, there has been a change in leadership in the highest echelons of the Eldar command as well as an accompanying shift in foreign policy."

"That states humans are fair game once more?" Vorbeck said icily.

"The new chief farseer hails from a craftworld quite unlike Ulthwé. Biel-Tan is renowned for its strict militarism and xenophobia, humans are a blight on the galaxy and are little different to the Greenskins or the Devourers in their eyes."

"So this Biel-Tan, you are one of them?"

"Yes."

"What made you turn on them?"

"Once Macha is firmly seated in power she will dispose of her allies one by one, either through political manoeuvring or espionage, I do not see my days as a corsair ending with a blade through my spine. I shall die with sword and blaster in hand, shouting and cursing to the bitter end."

"And you expect me to believe a word of a traitor, a turncoat?"

"Brigadier, I plunder and raid for a living, a scoundrel I am through and through but not a liar."

"What does your companion have to say, why does she not speak?" Vorbeck laid eyes on the red-haired Stickie.

"Simple, she cannot speak Gothic, she does not understand."

"One less mouth to blab." Vorbeck watched the Stickie for any signs of comprehension. "What purpose has Izuru Numerial given you then, corsair?"

"Captain, please, I am here to take command of the Grace…" Avele's eyes strayed to the lowered centre of the bridge and fixed on thick trails of blood from where the bodies had been dragged. "…The previous crews' command was terminated I see."

"Take command of the Grace, now why would I let you do that?"

"Because I can fly anything, and I know the Webway. Do you want to make it to Cadia alive? Then let me fly the ship."

"I put my trust in a Stickie once…"

"A wise choice, you would not have escaped Nemtess otherwise."

"The circumstances were less dire then."

"Currently I would rate your chances of seeing realspace again as nil. Do you want to save the rest of your men? Then let me have command."

"I do not like your face, Captain, or your words. I am quite aware of the Stickie knack for manipulation and know that if you try and pull the wool over my eye we will go down together with the ship," Vorbeck said quietly with an undercurrent of threat.

"As is the custom of Biel-Tan, a captain must go down with his ship or suffer dishonour and disgrace," Avele nodded out at the wrecks. "Macha has long since crossed the line, and I will not serve under a farseer who spends the lives of her subjects like currency. There, Brigadier, you have it."

Keladi spoke then. Vorbeck heard the sentence as one long word spoken too fast for him to understand.

"Keladi Lethidia agrees."

 _Absolutely meaningless,_ Vorbeck thought. "Very well, do I have your word that you will see us safely to the Cadian System?"

"Will you accept the word of a… Stickie, is that the correct term?"

"Somewhere out there the great Macharius is turning in his grave," Vorbeck stuck out his hand for the corsair to shake. "The mere notion of a human consorting with a xeno would make him send his fist through the Warp to clout me over the head and beat some sense into me."

"These are strange times we live in, Brigadier," Avele shook his hand. "Few live to see the turn of the millennium in a galaxy turned upside-down by war."

"Well let us pray to our deities that the forty-second millennium will bring better fortune to our races," Vorbeck nodded. "You have the bridge."

The female Stickie, Keladi began to converse with Avele Swifteye, their quickfire tongue Vorbeck found impossible to follow. Further intriguing him were the variety of small gestures and subtle movements in their body language that partly took the place of spoken conversation.

"My colleague wishes to journey below to the healing houses, there are many wounded hospitalised there," Avele said.

"Arrangements will be made," Vorbeck said off-handedly. "If she is not required in the running of this ship she must leave the bridge and rejoin her people."

"Gratitude, Brigadier," Avele inclined his head and turned to Keladi.

"I'll arrange an escort for your colleague. Tell her she cannot remain on the bridge."

"I already have."

"Colonel, I need a man to escort the female Stickie down to the med bays," Vorbeck beckoned Colonel Zandyke over.

"Yes, sir – Sarn't Major!" Zandyke called. "I need a spare non-com to escort the female Stickie down below to the med bays."

"Sir! Lance Corporal, on me iggery!" The sergeant major, hands clasped behind his back, marched across the bridge to Colonel Zandyke with a sandy-haired lance jack in tow.

Zandyke quickly informed the lance jack of his orders and pointed out the Stickie. "Make sense, Corporal?"

The lance jack's nervous eyes travelled up and down the Stickie. "Yes, sir."

"On your way, Corporal," the sergeant major glared.

Overt hostility and suspicion followed Keladi as she left the bridge with the soldier, with every other human guarding the portals, sitting or standing in the corridors harbouring dark thoughts on her people. She did not have to understand their language to recognise how much some wanted to set about her with their fists and boots. A globule of spit landed at her feet forcing her to step over it, the source a soured-faced human made animal noises and tapped his fist on on his head as Keladi passed by. Her escort, a glum-looking human with a single stripe on his shoulders replied to questions none of which Keladi understood. What she did understand though was to keep silent, play the dumb xeno, and ignore the preys' taunts.

Two decks below the bridge she and her escort encountered a bearded giant of a man and a short youth with a slung rifle and wearing clothing a little too large for him, both proceeded to bar her way. The human assigned to Keladi exchanged words with the pair, his rifle held easy, and then just like that turned and abandoned her. The gruff giant, several inches taller than Keladi eyed her suspiciously before following in his wake. The younger human did not leave, choosing to remain in front of Keladi. Casting about her Keladi realised with growing anxiety she was alone with the stranger, he was different from the thick-necked, broad, thuggish soldiers she had seen throughout the ship being much shorter and scrawnier. He did not seem to blink, at all for that matter; it was decidedly unnerving. Keladi had known warriors more youthful than most but this human was shockingly young and bore the telltale signs of a combat veteran. Grey rings underneath his eyes and thin lines across his face aged him. A blood vessel had burst in his right eye, reddening it. The human now coolly regarded her with a measured stare, a short, grey stub that trailed smoke sticking out of his mouth. Removing it he dropped it on the deck and crushed it with the heel of his black leather boot. "Keladi Lethidia?"

Keladi started, stepping back in shock. "How do you know my name?"

The human, not understanding said, "Izuru Numerial."

"Izuru…?" Her heart skipped a beat, _how does he know Izuru?_

"Izuru Numerial, hmm?"

"Who are you?"

"Me, Larn." The human shrugged and went on in his own dialect, raising his hands in gesture – I don't understand you.

" _Hlarn?_ "

"Larn, number one."

" _Nummer wun?_ "

"Good, uh?" the human calling himself Larn stuck his thumb up and nodded.

" _Gooduh._ "

"Stickie number one. Chaos number ten."

" _Steekee nummer wun. Kayoos nummer tzen,_ " Keladi's tongue struggled to form the gothic words. "How do you know Izuru?" she asked, reverting back to her own language.

"Pfft," Larn shrugged, "Nothin' doin'."

" _Nutzhin' dooeen._ "

"Uh?"

"An interpreter must be found if we are to communicate easily," Keladi said, this was getting nowhere.

Jerking his thumb over his shoulder Larn said a few gruff words Keladi did not understand, his hand gesture however she recognised – follow me. "I think not, stranger."

"Fine," Larn spread his arms wide and let them drop to his sides.

" _Fyen._ "

"C'mon, our Stickie," Larn held out a hand as if balancing a platter and swept it across himself. "Most Kosh."

Coughing from the dryness in my throat I felt the strap of my Lecta cutting into my shoulder, its weight wearing a mark on my skin. Hefting it higher I threw a quick glance behind at the red-haired Stickie. "C'mon, our Stickie, most ricky-tick."

" _Ahh Steekee, musst reekee teek,"_ Keladi mumbled.

"Perfect, you're gonna be swearing like a grunt soon," I laughed dryly.

With the one-eyed Stickie in tow I ditty-bopped down from the upper decks to the med bays, what the Stickie called healing houses; familiar ground to me.

"Oi, Stickie?" I called to a healer I spotted down one of the rows of patients, the healer, tending to another, spun around and gasped, her hand flying over her heart.

"I need you to…"

Shrieking in her native tongue the Stickie backed away then turned and fled.

"Where ye going?" Baffled I tracked the Stickie along the row and hurried after her. Keladi, her tone more forceful than before shouted something at me and grabbed one of my shoulder straps yanking me back.

"Get, get—" I battered at Keladi's claw forcing her to let go. "Bloody Stickies!" I rasped.

" _Nummer Tzen!_ " Keladi glared daggers at me and gestured for us to leave the healing houses immediately.

"Number ten?!" I sneered, clearing my throat loudly. "No, no, don't number ten me, little girl."

Just then a trio of healers appeared all three female and with looks of thunder on their smooth faces. The tallest, coincidentally the one in charge, laid into me with fluent, harsh gothic. "You invade our ship, take our people hostage, and murder our seer captain? Begone, little human, you shall find no welcome here."

"I need—" Before I could ask the Stickie interrupted and shot a stream of questions at Keladi, cutting me out of the conversation.

"The youth wonders what her mentor would have to do with such a small and insignificant speck of a human," the Stickie said to me once she and Keladi's back and forth had concluded. "She also would ask what purpose you have with her."

"Right…" I looked back at Keladi. She had folded her arms and was awaiting my reply. "Tell her I—"

"No, we do not speak for you, little human."

"I can't talk to her, she can't talk to me, it's…"

"Say please."

"Uh?"

"Say please."

"Please," I said reluctantly. "Please tell her Izuru Numerial ordered me to watch her back whilst she was gone and to not trust the corsair; do _not_ trust the corsair."

The Stickie stared down at me for a moment, I was by far the shortest person there, every Stickie was well over six foot, even Keladi who could easily loom over me. Despite being armed I could not help but feel intimidated.

"There, your warning was received, now leave and do not return," the Stickie moved forward a pace, her and her companions towering over me.

"Gladly," I muttered, taking my leave. Too many Stickies, I was sick of the sight of them and their attitude. With Izuru's friend out of the way of the corsair and whatever desires he had for her I could leave her and forget about it all. Let Stickies handle Stickie business, I only dealt with grunt business.

Avele Swifteye grinned and wet his lips. "And now, Brigadier Vorbeck, observe."

"Do we drop from the Webway?" Vorbeck leant over a three-dimensional holo of the fleet inside the Webway tunnel and pointed at the tiny image of the Grace. "We're here."

"This is not the Warp, Brigadier, one cannot simply rip a hole in reality wherever one pleases; the Webway has no such facilities."

"Speak candidly, corsair," Vorbeck shot him a withering look through the transparent images.

"Apologies I am unable to lower the technical details to your level of understanding."

"You could tell us what you plan on doing…"

"I plan on leaving the fleet and taking the Grace through a nearby branch that will allow us to re-enter realspace in the Cadian system; your human mind can surely comprehend such simplicity."

Subtly shaking his head Vorbeck returned to his officers. "Well, gentlemen, our lives are in the hands of a Stickie once again, Emperor forbid."

"Throne of Terra," Colonel Creel, remaining stone-faced, made the sign of the Aquila.

"Feel like rather a useless eater right now, Brigadier," Colonel Zandyke remarked, as sangfroid as his colleague.

"Patience, gentlemen, let the xeno do his job," Vorbeck, stiff-upper lip fully in place, clasped his hands behind his back and watched the corsair converse with the other Stickies. He resisted the urge to pace fretfully aware he must set the best example for the men. Underneath his tight beret he felt his head begin to sweat.

"What is he doing?" Major Lomas, having pulled himself together after his shaky episode, rejoined the officers.

"Is it possible to make sense of a xeno?" Pace Glowna said quietly. "They do not think like we do."

"To think like a xeno is heresy, Captain, speak carefully," Colonel Creel had overheard.

"Aren't we long past that point, sir?" Glowna said, his tired eyes gazing into space.

"Quell that sort of talk, Colonel," Vorbeck said gently. "No accusations of heresy shall be thrown around here. Observe the corsair we can do nothing else currently."

Avele Swifteye's adjustments were having little effect, at least to Vorbecks' infantry eye, unversed in the intricacies of naval manoeuvring as it was. Admiral Paderwicz would know, but he was gone, vaporised in a cowardly act of aggression. The culprit, Vorbeck had heard the name Macha mentioned was guilty of crimes both against her people and the Imperium; Vorbeck imagined bringing her before a court of law where she would be tried for warcrimes or possibly even genocide. He hoped she would be held accountable for the murder of her people and his, she could not be allowed to get away with it.

"Brigadier, we are away. ETA to distributary seventeen point four minutes," Avele announced.

Vorbeck bit down on a nail and nodded, it was all or nothing now.

* * *

 **The Arabulucu**

Slouched in her high-backed chair Macha zoned in and out of the discussions between the thirty-seven members of the war council. Summoned to the Arabulucu's council chamber the mix of older and younger seers, prophets, and warriors immediately fell into deep discussion with one another. From her raised seat Macha held a commanding view and could dip her ear into any one of the conversations, she chose not to indulge her benefit though; all her thoughts were on the half-breed. Macha's defeat of Izuru Numerial had left a nasty taste in her mouth, by rights she should have been sampling the sweet fruits of victory over her hated enemy but found it instead hollow. An honourable outcome had been within her grasp, she was so close to victory but the guards' intervention prevented her from truly winning; triumphing over the half-breed through great effort.

 _I could not have killed her like that. It would not have been clean,_ Macha thought ruefully, flexing her aching fingers.

A young prophet wearing the sea grey robes of the Swooping Hawks approached tentatively and bowed. "Great One, I wish to congratulate you on your ascension to the high seat, the Swooping Hawks and I look forward to a—"

"Approach me again I will have your Waystone shattered, and your body cast from the ship." Macha did not even bother to look at the young Hawk, her gaze was fixed on the distant Webway portal; the sole link between the battleship and the craftworld. Bowing deeply the Swooping Hawk backed away from the blunt rebuttal and returned to the tiny group of eldar cloaked in grey.

 _Insignificant, irrelevant,_ Macha brooded. With her enemies gone the hour had come to redirect the fleet to her home of Biel-Tan. _Let the humans sort their own wars out, t'was foolish of the council to be swayed into agreeing with my father, they shall pay in time for their simple-mindedness._

When Biel-Tan was secured Macha would implement her grand plan, and the purges could begin. Any being she did not like on a personal or political level would be dismissed from office, executed, or quietly retired, the greater their initiative the higher the chance of their removal for there could be no dissention, no questioning of Macha's orders on any level.

 _And when that is done the unity of the two craftworld's shall forge an empire anew from the ashes of the Imperium; once more we shall control the galaxy,_ Macha smiled at her palm and closed her hand tightly, driving her sharp nails into her skin. From one of the arms of her chair a blue light gently pulsated, accepting the hail Macha cupped her chin in her hand. "Speak."

"Great one, the gunnery master sends his compliments and wishes to notify you that a frigate has broken formation, it makes heading for a distributary tunnel."

"The frigate, name it."

"The Grace of The Mother, great one."

 _Captain Swifteye you disappoint me_ , Macha smirked. _By siding with the humans you made the gravest of errors, such a shame, I enjoyed our time together; let me correct your mistake._

"Do you have the frigate targeted?"

"Yes but there are many ships in between our weapons and the target, the gunnery master advises all batteries hold their fire until a clearer target presents itself."

"Fire, fire!" Macha snapped impatiently. The imperial remnant was too choice a target, and damn the collateral damage.

"Understood."

"Give them a volley," Macha leant forwards eagerly awaiting the damage analysis.

"Missiles sent…"

"And?" Macha was oblivious of the war council whose chatter had ceased; all were now watching her.

"Thirteen hits, stern and amidships."

"And?"

"Be aware only twenty-four per cent of ordnance sent struck the target, seventy-six per cent hit non-specified targets; twenty-five vessels destroyed, all classes—"

"But the Grace?" Macha brushed the concern aside, the Grace was all that mattered.

"Target has sustained heavy damage to her hull, multiple breaches are venting atmosphere."

That meant nothing for the ship surely had self-sealing compartments, the drive had to be crippled.

"What of the drive?"

"Drive now functioning at lowered efficiency, target has reduced velocity."

"Then…" Macha broke off. A few of the council members had risen from their seats and were quietly making their way out of the chamber. "You were not dismissed!" Macha cried. In reply the insubordinates bowed stiffly and made the sign of Ulthwé.

"Your orders, great one?"

"A second strike, missiles _and_ pulsars this time; obliterate the prey!" Macha cursed inwardly as more and more of the war council, their stares coldly accusing, left their seats.

"On your order."

Balling a fist Macha slammed it on the arm of her chair. "Fi—" But before she could give the order, there came whisper from the dormant Webway portal across the chamber. Distracted from the matter at hand Macha stared at the mesmerising swirl of light as I grew and grew until it forced her to shield her eyes. Then, regaining her sight she glimpsed a figure silhouetted in the mouth of the gate, one she never imagined she would see again in her lifetime.

Taller than the tallest, wiser than the wisest, and older the eldest, Eldrad Ulthran stood at the head of the steps, his stern gaze on the council members who had turned their backs on Macha. As one they bowed and made the sign of Ulthwé with genuine sincerity, retreating to allow Eldrad into their midst. Stunned, Macha felt herself shrink on her chair and wished she could fall inside it. The request to fire the next volley at the Grace went unnoticed as did the follow-up statement that it had escaped into the side tunnel still under its own power.

Swallowing hard Macha watched her father's instant acceptance with a mixture of dismay and jealousy. It was then she knew that she would never be a ruler like he was; they did not love her like they did him. Leaving the warm reception behind him Eldrad saw his daughter as he took to the centre of the chamber. Those that had remained by Macha's side fell to their knees and bowed their heads in shame. Macha alone met his gaze though she too felt like grovelling.

Stepping to the foot of the high seat Eldrad looked up at Macha. His expression was almost sad when he murmured a single word almost too quiet to be heard.

" _Disappointed_."


	9. Chapter 8

**The Arabulucu, The Webway**

Her pulse racing, Macha broke eye contact with her father and barked at the remaining council members, "OUT!"

Not a single one moved, all instead looked to Eldrad Ulthran for command. Bowing deeply Eldrad thanked them silently for their presence and bade them leave the council chamber. Seething Macha glowered at their backs as they departed one by one until she and her father were alone. Lifting a hand up, Eldrad bid Macha come down to him, "Know that I harbour no malign intent towards you, daughter-of-mine," he said sternly, taking Macha's hand. "Let us journey a while, and speak softly to one another."

Cowed into silence Macha left the chamber with Eldrad, there were questions great and small she was dying to ask but felt compelled to stay her tongue.

"Disappointed," Eldrad repeated after a short period of silence. "I am not angry with you, Macha, only disappointed."

"I wanted to make you proud, father but I…"

"But?" Eldrad raised an eyebrow in question.

"But you were not there. You were not there – why?" Macha assumed a pained expression. "T'was only through others I came to know of my heritage."

"Your heritage? In the end your heritage did not matter for you rose to prominence in Biel-Tan's society free from my influence, you did not need to cling to my skirts; you made yourself who you are today; free of my shadow."

"But you did not find me; you did not make yourself known to me in my youth. Only when I became honoured farseer did word reach me of you, my father."

"Again, daughter-of-mine, there was too much I was involved with, too much danger. By not going to you I spared you much pain – look," Eldrad pulled back his sleeve and showed Macha his bare arm.

"Your arm…" Macha saw the strange crystalline structure that was slowly spreading over his skin. "Why does it spread like so?"

"I am old, daughter-of-mine. I was present for the fall of the Empire, when our indulgence, our hedonism spawned the rift in the Warp, what the humans call the Eye of Terror; and the horror that dwells within."

"What drove you to abandon your people, to depart without reason? I tried to contact you, to reach out to Ulthwé for aid. Biel-Tan has fractured, it lies under siege this very moment, and you instead send your war fleet in the _opposite_ direction to help out in a petty human conflict?"

"Alas, Macha," Eldrad looked down on her sadly. "I must ask your forgiveness now for there is blood on my hands."

"What?" Macha's lip quivered. "No, not your hands…. Impossible, I cannot…" Turning her back on Eldrad Macha placed a hand over her mouth, struggling to keep her emotions in check.

"I know how you spent your subjects' lives as a merchant would spend currency, daughter-of-mine, but I am guilty of a far greater crime."

"How? There can be no greater crime than genocide of our own people!" Macha's throat contracted, she wanted to shut her ears to Eldrad and block out what he had to say.

"I confess, I stole fossilised remains of dead farseers from every craftworld and I sought to summon Ynnead, God of Death, but human intervention thwarted us, and we failed. In doing so the Infinity Circuit of your home was shattered in the process, I am sorry, Macha; the fracture of Biel-Tan was of my doing."

"…No?" Macha shrunk back from her father, shaken and horrified by the revelation. "No."

"It is for this reason that I am now unfit to lead the Craftworld Ulthwé," Eldrad shut his eyes and bowed. "I relinquish all titles to thee. Dominion of Ulthanash Shelwé now rests on your shoulders, daughter-of-mine. Perhaps you can become a better farseer than I was."

Trembling with emotion, Macha sobbed, "I am a murderer!"

"The crimes you are guilty of pale to mine. For my sins I can do nothing but apologise and, perhaps in another age, you can find it in yourself to forgive me."

"No… NO, NO NO!" Throwing herself at Eldrad Macha pounded her fists on his breastplate in grief, howling like a child.

"Do not dishonour yourself, daughter-of-mine," Eldrad said firmly taking hold of Macha's arms and keeping them still. "There is hope for our people yet, but it lies with the humans, you _must_ take the fleet to Cadia and lend your blade to the Imperium's struggle. The warriors of Biel-Tan are fighting tooth and nail against the Chaos invaders; I have seen it! Though their enemy is powerful and cunning they do not fight for their home, their very way of life! Do not go to Biel-Tan I implore you."

"I cannot, I am honour-bound to defend my home with my life," Macha whimpered.

"Then damn honour for we are both guilty of doing so. Do you not remember the Gothic War when aspect warrior and human soldier fought side by side against a common foe? Is it such an irregularity for you to dismiss it instantly? Macha you must let go of these honourable notions for they have only led to the blood of our own people being spilled. Do what is right – go to Cadia!"

"Father…"

"Please heed the words of the progenitor just for once; I cannot tarry here for long."

"What will you do, where will you go?"

"Affairs I have left unattended, they call to me." Eldrad let go of Macha's arms now that she had calmed down and tucked his hands up his sleeves. "I believe I can do greater deeds in service to our race as a wanderer now than as a farseer, the latter was restricted by rules, constrained by politics – how I tire of it – I shall have no such concerns as I journey across the stars as I once did in my youth." Stopping once more Eldrad turned to his daughter, taking on a respectful, reverent tone. "Would you also consider releasing Izuru Numerial from captivity; she is no longer a threat to you."

"I cannot," Macha hung her head. "She is dead."

"You killed her?" Eldrad's face darkened.

"I could not best her in honourable combat. I left her a weapon to…"

"To take her own life?"

"Yes," Macha nodded, refusing to meet her fathers' eyes. "If she did not turn her weapon upon herself I ordered my guard to invoke Biel-Tan justice; she will be shot."

"Then please grant me permission to return her body to Alaitoc for inclusion to the Infinity Circuit if your guard have already completed the exercise. If not then I graciously request you turn her over to me, and we will depart the fleet post-haste."

"You have permission, father."

"Then business is concluded," Eldrad bowed stiffly. "Fare thee well, chief farseer, may the gods look down upon you and your people favourably in the coming storm."

Turning on his heel Eldrad Ulthran left without a backwards glance, leaving Macha as the undisputed leader of Ulthwé. Now that Macha had achieved her goal she should have rejoiced but felt only shame and regret for her actions.

The point of the pike had cut deep, the initial shock having now given way to a very potent ache. It was not too troubling unlike the comparatively shallow cut to Izuru's side; that caused her pain unimaginable. The lightest touch to the freshly-sealed wound gave Izuru horrifying flashbacks to Grendel transporting her into the midst of the chaos of Norn and the climactic battle with the Void Dragons. She yearned to be rid of the memories for they hurt and continued to hurt her inside, but it would be taken with her to her final resting place wherever it would be.

Searching through greasy clumps of black hair Izuru's fingers found the swollen lump on her crown and winced, remembering the solid crack of the pommel of Macha's sword. _Why did Macha not kill me then, why keep me alive? Is it information she seeks, am I to be interrogated?_ Izuru had steeled herself for a session of beatings, crude but necessary to break the victim's barriers, both physical and mental, down. Once she was softened up the questions would start, gentle and simple yes-no at first then growing in complexity, gradually peeling the layers away until Izuru had nothing left to hide. She had been put through a brutal resistance to interrogation course as well as a gruelling timed challenge whereupon she was turned loose naked, unarmed and ordered to evade a party of rangers who were supposed to recapture her; both had to be completed as part of ranger training. _They will get nothing from me_ _I will die first_ , she vowed.

Ironically dying first was the initial option her captors had presented to her, it came in the form of Larn's Moses pistol. On awakening Izuru had spotted it lying in the centre of the tiny chamber she was held in and scrambled to take it. The moment Izuru picked she felt the lack of weight in the grip and judged it to be unloaded, a quick glance at the empty magazine well proved it. On a closer inspection she found a round in the chamber and imagined Macha's arrogant sneer, her words going along the lines of: 'fitting for a half-caste creature to end herself by a human weapon'. Izuru found something strangely funny about it when she discovered the blunder Macha's lackeys had made. Removing the single round Izuru pointed the pistol at the sealed portal in front of her and squeezed the trigger but nothing happened, the cocked hammer should have dropped but it did not. _Even if I wanted to end it I could not,_ Izuru snorted, sliding the round back into the chamber and flicking it closed. Without the magazine the weapon was entirely useless, something that had gone over Macha's head completely.

Forgetting the weapon Izuru's thoughts turned to the tiny snippet of information Macha had let slip, either deliberately or accidentally she could not tell. There was even a third possibility that Macha had been lying through her teeth in an attempt to goad Izuru into attacking recklessly or simply taunting her about Izuru's parentage which so many others had done in the past. Izuru simply could not tell with Macha, she was impossible to read.

"What is Project Genus?" Izuru said aloud. "What _is_ Project Genus?"

 _Genus,_ the word was from High Gothic a tongue nigh extinct in the Imperium; it meant seed. _The seed of the human melded with_ _the seed of the Eldar_ , _could it be? It is a genetic impossibility,_ Izuru massaged her aching temples. Her whole head ached, and thinking deeply wasn't doing it any good. Before leaving Ulthwé on the mission to Nemtess Izuru had indeed concluded in her research that a crossbreed was genetically impossible, she did not claim to be well-versed in gene-lore but even a being with the most basic understanding of the differences between human and Eldar DNA structure would conclude that it could not happen.

 _Then what am I?_ Izuru asked herself as she had done back on Ulthwé many times, _a tank-grown experiment spawned from a test-tube at the hand of a cackling psychopath? Am I simply a product of insanity, maybe even a failed one; part of a defective batch tossed away?_

"Father…" Izuru strained to remember her fathers' final words to her, the promise Amonther had made to little Izuru that he would tell her about her mother upon his return from a ranging. "Did you keep it from me all this time that I was born not from a mother's womb but by artificial birth?" Resting her spinning head against the wall Izuru sighed. Squeezing her eyes shut two tears ran slowly down her cheeks. "Father, I am scared."

They came for her before she had even dried her eyes. Standing tall in the centre of the chamber Izuru awaited the imposing forms of the Shadow Spectres to file in and surround her, however instead of figures in white there came instead figures in black armour with gold trim on their helmets; Black Guardians.

Placing her hands on top of her head Izuru kept still as she was frisked by two of the guardians who quickly relieved her of the Moses, then their search complete they formed a guard around Izuru with four others and marched her from the tiny chamber. Tasting fresh air once more Izuru tentatively removed her hands from her head and let them fall by her sides, surprisingly none of her guards objected.

Travelling through the rich purple corridors and walkways of the Arabulucu's vast, city-like depths Izuru noticed gradually that there was something amiss with the Black Guardians, their body language was off, their senses were focused outwards rather than inwards at her. The half dozen appeared more wary of intervention from an outside party than they were of their dishevelled prisoner who could only manage a limp. _Are they more concerned about Macha or me?_ Izuru wondered, blocking out the bothersome jabs of pain from her leg and side. What caused further speculation were the rolled up cameleoline robes one of the guardians had slung over his shoulder, _why bother with bringing that to an interrogation?_ Izuru's eyes hovered over the battle-worn garment. _Unless_ _I was wrong and there will be no questions, just a firing squad._ A half-smile ghosted her features as Izuru realised the irony in all of it, that she would meet her end in the same manner as her bond-mate had. _I come to you soon across the dark waters, my love._ She glimpsed the reunion with Ellorias where his claim to immortality would be shared with her, and they would be free at last.

 _Steel thyself,_ _daughter of Lyanden, warrior of Alaitoc, and ambassador of Ulthwé, your time has come._

 _I will go as you did, my love, with a calm spirit and a clear mind, for that is the key to immortality._

Izuru's heart warmed as she pictured Ellorias' smile, his youthful face and curiously round ears. _No_ _not him,_ Izuru had thought of the human instead, his prominent nose and wonky, unclean teeth. _Forgive me, Ellorias_ , she imagined apologising to Ellorias for her wandering mind and his playful poking at her over it. It was strange that such a small and insignificant being had played a greater part in her life than her own bond-mate had. _You were a fine enemy_ , _Arvin James Larn_ , _and I am certain you would have been a greater friend. Please see Keladi safe and take care of yourself too._

The walk to the post Izuru made of her own free will, her thoughts now on her children. _My greatest achievement, Ilic and Korsarro, may your lives be long, and may you be loved as all living beings deserve to be._

Turning her back to the wraithbone post Izuru let her hands be bound behind it. Hearing the gentle hum of the binders she filled her lungs and emptied slowly, her side twinging. A Shadow Spectre, a member of the small cadre present for the execution stood by her side facing in the opposite direction; he did not look her in the eye when he held out the thick silk blindfold.

"Foreign custom shall be respected, as a former citizen of the Craftworld Alaitoc your Waystone shall be delivered to the Infinity Circuit after the body has ceased functioning. You shall retain all ranks and titles earned during your service to the Craftworld Eldar – will you take the blindfold?"

Izuru nodded and waited for the soft silk to be tied around her head, it smelt sweetly.

"On the command," a voice ordered. "Stand by your longarm."

A gentle click as lasblasters were shouldered and safeties removed.

 _I await_ , Izuru tried to picture Ellorias but instead of him a confused jumble of images, different beings in different places took to the forefront of her mind preventing her from fixing on anything specific. Opening her mouth for the last time, Izuru whispered quickly, " _Let no conflict or being come between us for such passion can reach out and conquer the suns and stars as you conquered my heart, where_ _before I was trapped in a prison without locks, you set me free and let me live again, dearest…"_

Unable to finish Izuru let out a gasp and shut her mouth tight to await the split-second flash.

"Peace," a voice belonging to one Izuru had thought long gone snapped her eyes open underneath the blindfold. Leaping into her throat her heart began to hammer uncontrollably.

"Peace, let there be peace between the sons of Biel-Tan and Ulthwé," the commanding voice of Eldrad Ulthran flowed into the chamber. "Honourable warriors of the Shadow Spectre Caste, I am here on the authority of your chief farseer, custody of the ranger Izuru Numerial is to be handed to me."

Nearly bursting into tears from sheer relief Izuru felt the silk being untied, Eldrad Ulthran's fingers pulled the cover away from her eyes and he was gazing solemnly down on her. An unspoken command was passed to the platoon of Black Guardians watching the outnumbered Shadow Spectres, the former performing an about-face as one and stamping on the floor, their boots ringing loudly off of the walls. Now they had privacy Izuru's mask broke and she hugged her mentor tightly, "I thought I had lost you."

"Away, we must hasten away," Eldrad did not return the affection and gently pried Izuru off. "Duty calls to us both."

"But, the Craftworld, the fleet, now that you have returned you will take command, reclaim the high seat from the usurper?" Izuru said anxiously. "Macha…"

"Resides on the high seat where she belongs."

"It is not true – tell me it is not true, is Macha your offspring?"

"Stay your tongue I beg, let us be away first then all of your questions shall be answered; I promise you," Eldrad said sternly. Taking Izuru by the arm and, flanked by his honour guard, made for the outer reaches of the ships' circuit and the hangars. Whispers followed them as bystanders noticed the procession and began to realise who they were.

"It is him!" Izuru heard someone whisper loudly.

"I saw him," another gasped.

"Who is the female?"

Any curious followers-on were swiftly urged to leave at gunpoint.

"Loose tongues are dangerous, I would rather our presence went unnoticed," Eldrad said.

"Is Macha aware?"

"Macha need no longer concern you or I, she has driven herself into a corner and is now bound to lead the people of Ulthwé; we on the other hand have far greater matters to attend to."

There was no sign of the green-white livery of Biel-Tan anywhere in the bubble-shaped docking bay; those in black armour were to be found aplenty. The Black Guardians guarded a narrow and low corvette, its presence taking up the entire space leaving no spare room for anything else. It was bedecked with the eye of Ulthwé on both of its swept-back wings and decorated with hundreds of white runes that looked to be hand-painted. Izuru had not seen such elegant craftsmanship in a ship that small, were the situation not so tense she would have been asking of its origins.

"The Avenging Blade," Eldrad made a dramatic, sweeping gesture as he led Izuru towards a round, yellow portal set amidships. "Let us be aboard and away from this place."

Struggling up the sharply-inclined ramp Izuru faltered briefly but Eldrad was there to help her along. "Your conflict with Macha did not leave you unwounded," he observed, ducking his head to step under the portal. Izuru, considerably shorter had no such trouble.

"My leg, Ulthranwé," Izuru remembered the correct honorific. "My side too."

"Your wounds will be treated but first find your seat and remain until I have summoned you." Eldrad bade Izuru sit on one of the bucket seats lining the tubular midsection of the Avenging Blade, the rest were quickly taken up by the honour guard trooping in from guarding the perimeter of the ship.

 _This is not real,_ Izuru bent over in her seat clutching her arms to her chest. She had been a prisoner of Macha, but Eldrad had swept in and saved her without firing a shot; _I am in a dream._

The growing rumble of the engines thundered throughout the ship jarring everything with its vibrations, overhead the pale white orbs flickered and dimmed to a deep crimson; emergency lighting. In the darkness the helmeted guardians surrounding Izuru looked like black skulls decorated with gold finery, disturbing even in the bright artificial light that the craftworlders all lived under.

When the rumbling had faded into the background the lights resumed, a few of the guardians removed their helmets and began small talk with their comrades. Izuru had no-one to talk to, none of the aspect warriors on either side of her had spoken or even moved making her wonder whether they had fallen asleep; they could have died and gone unnoticed for ages.

"Ulthranwé," a bareheaded guardian, on his feet, hurriedly made the sign of Ulthwé and bowed noticing Eldrad Ulthran approaching from the upper tier of the ship. At his sign every guardian rose from their seats, those still wearing helmets removed them.

"I commend your conduct on the Arabulucu," Eldrad soared into the air for the last few feet, landing gently in the troop bay, his arms wide. "Discretion and restraint, I would not attribute such traits to warriors accustomed to aggression and sheer bloody-mindedness. I would hug you all but it would take too much time so I must settle with a salute, my honour guard performed well today, be happy in the fact that not a single being was hurt or even a single shot fired. You have my respect and gratitude."

Smiles went around the honour guard, expressions of relief, happiness and mirth that no-one had been hurt and war with Macha had been averted.

"Why does the female not stand?" a guardian, noticing Izuru had not risen shot her a hard-edged look.

"The warrior bears wounds…" Eldrad made a beeline for Izuru who was struggling to get up. "…from battles past and present, do not decry her I beg you; she is ranger and you are lucky to count her amongst your number."

His hand firmly under Izuru's arm, Eldrad helped her stand up straight and led her to the upper deck accessway. "My old guard, long-term veterans of conflicts long forgotten, they are closer to me than any partner I ever had," Eldrad said as they let themselves be carried upwards.

"I must ask…" Izuru's knees nearly buckled when she put her weight down on the upper deck.

"First rest, eat, drink, wash," Eldrad caught her deftly before she collapsed. "Body and mind have been through immeasurable strain these past weeks, and I would have you fully refreshed before you hear my words."

"Yes, Ulthranwé," Izuru had not the resolve to protest so thoroughly exhausted as she was, the last proper meal she had eaten was a distant memory and the comfort of a pillow underneath her head was strange and alien to her.

Steering Izuru into his quarters Eldrad introduced a team of healers and then backed out without another word. Carefully exposing the wounds on her body and hand Izuru let the healers first clean then seal them up, removing any trace of damaged skin in the process. She was on the verge of protesting, she liked her scars, seeing them as battle trophies when Eldrad returned, a tightly rolled bundle of clothing in his arms as well as Izuru's cameleoline cloak.

"Gratitude," he dismissed them with a wave of his hand and turned to Izuru. "These chambers are yours and yours alone for the duration of the journey."

"Where are we going?"

"Eat, drink, wash, rest first, for come the questions you mind must be clear," Eldrad set the bundle down on the creamy surface of a table and unwrapped the garments. "Yours?" he held up the folded cameleoline in the light.

"Mine," Izuru rose unsteadily to her feet, gingerly putting weight on her leg.

"Yours?" Eldrad produced the Moses and held it up by the barrel; it was comically tiny in his gauntlet.

"Not mine."

"You carried it on your person when you went to confront Macha, why?"

"It is not mine, it belongs to a human soldier I fought alongside on Grendel, he saved my life and as the law of the craftworld states I am bound to save his; I am proud to say I returned the favour on Nemtess."

Eldrad, not liking what he heard fixed Izuru with a stony gaze, "It is not wise to make commitments with the humans, young one, they do not think like we do, you will be betrayed sooner or later."

"He is my _friend_ ," Izuru met Eldrad's eye steadily. "And I shall treat him with the same respect as I would a citizen of the craftworlds."

"He is nothing," Eldrad said derisively tossing the Moses onto the table then placing its magazine next to it.

Coldly Izuru replied, "From your very mouth, Ulthranwé, your words of wisdom, words pressing us to form alliance with the Imperium, to extend our hand in friendship—"

"You forget yourself, child," Eldrad cut in sharply. "You are slipping too deeply into your role, have you forgotten _why_ I chose this path? The preservation of our people, it was always about our race enduring as it has done for the past ten thousand years under the threat of the thing we spawned. I do not know what drives you, I have not searched your mind for I respect your property, but this devotion to the lesser species has made you forget your purpose. Is it respect? Do you harbour your own agenda in pursuit of revenge, or are you enamoured—?"

"Honour," Izuru straightened up, heedless of the achy numbness in her leg and faced her mentor proudly. "We are beings of honour, and if we do not follow our code we are no better than Macha."

Eldrad's expression remained stony but his eyebrows arched. "You will speak no ill of my blood. Macha has the high seat now and her position shall be respected. Eat, rest, wash; you are tired." He swept past the silent Izuru the latter's eyes looking down her nose at the tables' mirror sheen. Izuru had not expected to butt heads with her mentor and it irked her that he had made her feel ashamed for befriending a human lowlife but there it was. What had Larn said after Izuru had offered the hand of friendship? The hand of mateship, Izuru now only realised it – _mateship, he surely mistook that for friendship or did he mean to bond?_ The thought amused her. Humans were funny creatures, blunt and unsophisticated but with useful traits, their stellar qualities no doubt originated from their near-fanatical stubbornness and desire to protect what was theirs against insurmountable odds; that Izuru understood and respected.

Fingering the folded cameleoline Izuru lifted it and spread it across the table, the Moses she laid on the extreme right, the rest of her filthy blood-stained garments she removed and arranged in ordered piles over the faded camouflage. Eldrad had provided clean attire, a set of black under armour his honour guard wore beneath their battledress, the two piece suit incorporated a ballistic weave that granted protection against shrapnel but less so against bullets or plasma, the wraithbone plate the aspect warriors donned would see to that. Izuru shied away from the guardian's ballistic protection, to her having a greater movement speed trumped being encumbered by the staggered plates. From experience a fast, lightly armoured target was much harder to hit than a well-armoured albeit slow target.

The water pooling at Izuru's feet was black, the grime from the rest of her body running down her legs and between her toes, this should have alarmed her but instead she observed it with the mildest curiosity. What concerned her most, rather than the dirt, was what was underneath her fingernails. There was dried blood there, she could feel it clinging to her nails, and no matter how hard she scrubbed she could not remove it. Dread struck her heart, the ever-lasting blood would remain always as a dire omen; a reminder of her sins.

Naked, her damp hair hanging over her ears Izuru sat cross-legged in the centre of the oval carpet and strove to clear her mind, what was once an effortless task had now become a struggle what with everything that had happened in recent times. She sought inner peace but could find no break in the storm in her heart. The simple act of meditation every child of Alaitoc learned at a very young age she found impossible now, and for it she wanted to beat her head against the wall out of frustration until it cracked.

Later, nourished, watered, wearing the black of Ulthwé yet still stubbornly holding onto her Alaitoc cameleoline Izuru sought Eldrad Ulthran. She had contemplated shaving her head as she had before the battle with the Void Dragons on Grendel as well as daubing her cheeks with warpaint that signified her loyalty towards Alaitoc. She had stood poised with the blade intending to hack her hair off, _they must fear me and for that I must become a thing, the dread in the hearts of my enemies, an entity without gender, or compassion, or even identity_. But something stayed her hand, a little voice of reason compelling her to toss the short blade aside and say to herself, _never forget_ _who and what you are for your actions, not your appearance, shall define you_ ; _remain Izuru Numerial and give not into wrath._ Taking her hair in her hands Izuru worked it into a tight knot little different than how she had worn it before. Two clumps of hair, too short to tie back she left hanging over her ears. _And now, Ulthranwé_ , she thought picking the Moses off of the table and loading it, _you know the questions,_ _it is time I learned the_ _answers._

Eldrad Ulthran awaited her on the opposite side of the galaxy. Izuru was sworn entry into the dark chamber that was unlit save from the large map of the galactic plane in the centre. Standing still Izuru watched the light rescind behind her as the door was sealed and waited.

"Body is refreshed, and mind at rest?" Eldrad spoke from the darkness.

"Yes, Ulthranwé," Izuru bowed and made the sign of Ulthwé. "I am unfamiliar with such comfort. I fear I have spent too long in the field and have become more accustomed to sleeping in mud and dirt."

"Your body is cleansed, but your mind…"

Izuru gasped as the tip of an icy needle gently pressed on the outer boundaries of her mind.

"Your mind is in turmoil – speak or be dismissed!"

"Apologies, Ulthranwé, I worry for those I would consider dear to me, they are absent yonder and are in danger of Macha."

"Concerned yourself not with the humans for however dear a certain number of them are to you they are still allies of convenience and cannot be trusted enough to call them companions."

"The humans are of no concern to me, Ulthranwé the comrades I left behind in their company are whom I care about – a maiden of the Howling Banshee caste, Keladi Lethidia her name; she has not yet reached adulthood, I have great affection for she is sibling to me."

"I did not breach your consciousness because I trusted and respected you, daughter of Alaitoc…" Eldrad's form appeared haloed in the bright centre of the galaxy. He stood silhouetted in light for a moment before moving to the softer edges of the stars, his hands folded over one another across his chest. "But do not for a heartbeat imagine that you can deceive me – me, Eldrad Ulthran!"

"Then let truth be spoken by the both of us," Izuru said. "I have seen the corruption, the xenophobia, the bureaucracy, and the zealous nature of the human race at its ugliest, and I confess to fanning the flames to further it in its downward spiral into oblivion. I murdered imperial servicemen, instigated attacks on human civilians on Grendel, and committed the most heinous of crimes; I took the lives of my own kin out of a selfish desire for revenge and to reclaim that which was stolen from me by the Void Dragons," Izuru felt the passion rising in her voice as she continued. "Now we, the Eldar cling to our high ideals and place ourselves above all others that dwell in this galaxy, but the truth is we are equally guilty of sin, and we are no better than the humans we are just as bad as one another. Ulthranwé, my mind is in turmoil _yes_ , and I _do_ care for a handful of humans as I have seen how much they care for their brothers-in-arms just as we care for ours. What they would do for one another and how deeply they care for is truly staggering," Izuru's eyes were wet. "When I saw this I bore a human soldier on my shoulders willingly, his friends were dying around him helpless and alone, and do you know how that made me feel? It made me feel… human."

"That I cannot answer," Eldrad said slowly. "I beg you do not stray down this path for it will lead you to dark places and to knowledge you do not wish to discover."

"Ulthranwé…" Izuru choked. "What is Project Genus?"

Eldrad had no answer, the mentor always had the answer to the students' question, but now seeing him lost for words shook Izuru badly.

"I was down there on Nemtess by your order," she nodded tearfully. "But I felt then that I was doing greater deeds in helping the humans than I ever had been in the service of Alaitoc or Ulthwé. To them I was not a blasted half-breed, half-caste, or round-ear; I was a real Eldar."

"I cannot tell you what Project Genus is, it is not my wish to keep you in ignorance as I admit I have done in the past but simply because I do not know what it is; what I can say is that this project is not of Eldar origins."

"Macha knew," Izuru whispered. "She let slip of it during our duel, intentionally I do not know."

"The name is human, its roots lie with them," Eldrad said pensively.

"Can it explain me? How I exist. Ulthranwé, the differences in our DNA are too great…"

"Please, I can only offer my apologies to you, child, as well as reasons for absence."

Wiping her eyes, Izuru swallowed, "if you would, Ulthranwé, enlighten this being before you."

"Take note and listen," Eldrad, with a hand gesture swept the map into a smaller scale view of a sector and then a sub-sector. "I took stock of the odds and I gambled as a foolish drunk would. A fool I was to think I could summon a deity through perilous ritual; a damnable fool."

"Deity…?" Izuru looked on in astonishment. "Blessed Asuryan."

"Neither Asuryan, Khaela Mensha Khaine, nor Kurnous, I sought to summon Ynnead, The Whisperer, our God of the Dead by way of ritual on the planet Coheria," Eldrad's stern features faltered. "I must also confess for I sinned greatly, the means I employed during preparations for the summons would be considered highly unethical in our society. I stole remains of dead farseers from each craftworld to awaken Ynnead, a barbarous act and in doing so I condemned myself. It came to nothing in the end for Coheria is under human control and like the meddlers they are they disrupted the ritual with their bolters and their armoured faith, the angels of humanity driving the invading xenos scum from their land." Eldrad's tone was mournful now, "The process destabilised the Infinity Circuit of Biel-Tan, destroying it and driving Macha to seek answers. She now has the armies and fleets of Ulthwé at her hand, I begged her to go to Cadia to fight Chaos united with the Imperium but the child loves Biel-Tan too much."

Listening silently throughout Izuru spoke softly but with scorn, "the war will not be decided by the gods, living or dead, it will be the individual acts of courage of the small, insignificant and wholly unremarkable soldiers on the ground actually fighting and not abandoning their friends in their hour of need."

Eldrad's eyes flashed, but instead of a veiled threat he said, surprisingly humbly, "It is for the better that Macha assumes command for I am no longer fit to lead Ulthwé."

"After Macha's slaughter you would not see her unseated?" Izuru said, aghast.

"Her crimes are petty, spiteful, but pale in comparison to mine, for did you not say the greatest crime was the murder of one's own kin? If so then I am the greatest mass-murderer that ever lived, guilty of the destruction of millions of souls."

"You cannot turn your back on your people, Ulthranwé, please."

"But my days are numbered, it is written," Eldrad tugged back his sleeve revealing a shiny crystalline growth on the inside of his forearm.

"No, surely you jest, immortal one," Izuru turned stark white; she had never seen such a condition before.

"Nay, immortal I am not, aged would be more befitting," Eldrad smiled. "We will shortly be in the company of my allies, the harlequins, there you will take command of a company of rangers and make with all speed for the Cadian System to assist where you can; that is my final order to you."

Concerned with the finality of Eldrad's words Izuru asked, "I will not see you again will I?"

"You shall not. I seek allies far and wide for the coming battles of the forty-second millennium, our eleven-thousandth year since the fall; we are destined for different roles in this war."

"I yearn for the day that we might fight side by side, Ulthranwé," Izuru made the sign of Ulthwé proudly. "But the gods do not permit it."

"You will fight side by side with your allies and friends on Cadia, Izuru. You shall face the storm together standing strong with the humans," Eldrad beckoned her to come closer. "I bestow upon you my blessing," he placed both hands on Izuru's shoulders and kissed her forehead. Bending lower he murmured in her ear, words for only her to hear, nonetheless they warmed her heart and eased her restless mind.

* * *

 **The Grace of the Mother, The Webway.**

"And, jettison!" Avele Swifteye snapped out the order crisply.

"I assume that noise we heard was intentional," Brigadier Vorbeck said sharply as worried mutterings were had between the officers in the wake of this latest occurrence; only the sergeant major was his usual unflappable self. The damage from the Arabulucu's batteries had beaten the Grace's infrastructure and severely weakened the drive but not altogether crippled it resulting in a sharply reduced cruising velocity. Vorbeck, perturbed by the the stickie's flippant nature awaited his report whilst wondering if he knew entirely what he was doing.

"It is always intentional," Avele replied with gusto. "The frigate is capable of splitting into sections each is its own autonomous body capable of sustaining life and travelling under its own power. Fear not, the wounded I assure you are now heading their own way and shall not be making landfall on Cadia with us."

"Impressive xenos tech," Vorbeck said dryly. "But did you verify before you split the ship in half that my men were all accounted for?"

"Half? Three sevenths is much more accurate, Brigadier, the bridge commands a full view of the layout of the ship including every single living being aboard."

"Remarkable," Vorbeck snorted.

"I would settle for a Dauntless Light Cruiser over any xenos tub any day," Colonel Creel whispered to Colonel Zandyke, "twenty megatonnes of titanium-A, a heavy cruiser's compliment of Ajax missiles and lances to add to that."

"Seconded, though I cannot fathom how the xenos traverse the immaterium without a navigator's aid," Zandyke replied. "And to be able to look freely upon this vista… there is something entirely unnatural about it."

"This is not the Warp, Colonel," Avele, over on the far side of the bridge, had overheard. "Unlike your ham-fisted, ponderous, and frankly perilous journeys through the Warp, Eldar slip into and out of the Webway as easily as you would enter and leave a room. Imagine a house many storeys high, you are in the centre room, the one furthest from the exit, you try to leave but find the route that you thought was previously viable has changed in as little as a minute. That is the Webway, a constantly shifting network of tunnels, the tiniest of passages, and the greatest of avenues so vast they harbour entire cities, lost worlds that are treasure troves of pre-fall and for that matter pre-imperium tech."

"Pre-imperium?" Zandyke ground is teeth. "Before the Emperor there was nothing, it is heresy to speak of what came before his reign, he brought order to the chaos and banished the darkness that obscured the galaxy—"

"Thank you, Colonel," Vorbeck interrupted, looking to shut him up before he went off on a tangent.

"Did you understand any of that?" Creel looked bemusedly at his fellow officers. "The Webway?"

"I would rather I didn't understand it," Major Lomas spoke up. "Safety in ignorance," he shrugged. "The greater the knowledge the greater the danger."

"Captain, once we egress from the Webway how do we approach the planet? Assuming it is not already under siege we may find ourselves a beetle scuttling amongst the boot heels of warring giants."

"Brigadier I do not intend to bring the Grace any nearer to Cadia than I mean to," Avele pointed at Vorbeck. "You, your officers and your men will embark upon the life craft and make the last leg yourselves, with a signature so small you will most likely pass undetected."

"Not with the shield up we won't," Vorbeck shook his head.

"Shield…?"

"Cadia has a planetary shield and only two gates that allow admittance to the surface, if the home fleet is engaging the enemy in orbit then those gates stay closed permanently."

"Didn't think of that one did he?" Creel muttered.

"And these life craft you're inferring to, there will not be enough for all, either we all stay or we all go and the latter does not appear a likely outcome," Vorbeck folded his arms and eyed the corsair stonily.

"Then let us see what awaits us in the Cadian System," Avele turned his back on Vorbeck and made a grand gesture. "Re-entering the materium in five…"

"This is it," Zandyke breathed.

"May the God-Emperor have mercy on our souls," Creel made the sign of the aquila and whispered a silent benediction.

"We are almost home, gentlemen," Vorbeck said encouragingly. "Prepare yourselves for a Cadian welcome."

The impending emergence from the Webway lifted the spirits of men who had become sick of travelling cooped up aboard an unfamiliar ship and by a route they were uncomfortable with, however the moment they re-entered the dark void of space their hearts dropped like stones.

"God-Emperor almighty!" Zandyke gasped.

"Cadia…"

"It has already started," Vorbeck said grimly.

Cadia was a blue and green speck no larger than a pinhead but it was surrounded completely by warring vessels, from capital ships trading extreme range missile salvos, to flankers employing speed and manoeuvrability against their counterparts, to the interceptor squadrons duelling fiercely with many times their number. Even with many hundreds of kilometres between the Grace and the furthest edge of combat the flashes were still visible, it was the most extravagant lightshow any man had ever seen.

"Can we see any closer?" Vorbeck asked the corsair.

"Magnify four-hundred per cent," Avele said weakly, he did not bother switching tongues.

Abruptly the image zoomed in and subtly enhanced until the battle filled the bulbous viewport with Cadia's planetscape taking up the background.

"Why is…?" Lomas' jaw dropped.

"Impossible, they must've had time to prepare, what about their early-warning systems, how did the Chaos fleet circumvent that?" Zandyke threw up his hands in disgust.

"Cadia, the second most heavily defended planet in the Imperium, and they forgot to turn their shield on," Creel said morosely.

"Are they letting them send landers to the surface just like that?" Lomas noticed chaos landers flying back and forth from their motherships unopposed shuttling troops down to the surface of the planet. Nearly the entire southern continent, the flatlands and the southern highlands had already been blasted black by orbital bombardment. "Has the planet fallen already, are we too late?"

Vorbeck, a hard tone in his voice faced his officers, "the shield is not our concern, whatever the circumstances they are _not_ our concern, we are here, they are there, and we will make for Cadia regardless – Captain, take us in."

"I cannot get us closer without being detected by long-range scanners, the life craft are small enough that you might make it through unscathed," Avele's upbeat demeanour had vanished.

"We are staying here, all of us, together. I need not remind you who has possession of the guns; now bring us within range of the nearest imperial warship and broadcast on an open channel," Vorbeck stepped away from the officers and towards the corsair. "I assure you you cannot trick your way out of this now, if we go down we go down together but you _will_ get us home first."

Mutely Avele backed down letting Vorbeck take over, the latter quietly determined to bring his broken detachment of the Imperial Guard home safe after the bitter defeat on Nemtess. Clasping his hands behind his back Vorbeck planted his feet apart and stared at the growing clusters of giants locked in desperate combat with one another.

 _Grant us safe passage, holy one. Let me keep my promise to those boys, let me not betray them._


	10. Chapter 9

**The Avenging Blade, The Webway**

With practised hands the helmsman guided the Avenging Blade through one of the thousands of tunnels intersecting the main routes of travel inside the Webway and brought the corvette out of the narrow mouth, now once more engulfed in the impenetrable blackness of space. They were not alone however.

"My friends," Eldrad Ulthran indicated to Izuru the fleet they had emerged amongst. "An unlikely gathering, wouldn't you say?"

Lost for words momentarily Izuru slowly took in the multitude of foreign vessels occupying the space 'above', 'below', and 'around' – if such a thing was possible in space – the Avenging Blade.

"Druchii!" Izuru was alarmed to see black ships adorned with spikes amongst the fleet. "Why do you travel in the company of the Fallen, Ulthranwé?"

Eldrad, giving the helm instructions to inform the fleet of his return replied, "Druchii, harlequins, craftworlders…"

"You gathered them all under one banner – how?"

"I sent out a call far and wide, those that lent their ears merely had to listen."

"What did you tell them?"

"That the Ynnari await."

"Who are the Ynnari?"

"They await us," Eldrad smiled. "We must thank them for their patience."

"Are they friendly?"

"Speak softly and with reverence in their presence, their leader is a commorite named Yvraine."

"She is Druchii?"

"Yvraine was born on Biel-Tan but left before she reached adulthood seeking stimulation – in her eyes – that the craftworld could not provide. She took to raiding commerce shipping as an outcast before a mutiny forced her into the Webway to hide. Commorragh was where she found her purpose with the Wych Cults… that was before Ynnead chose her as his champion."

"But the summons, it failed did it not? Ulthranwé you said so yourself that the humans thwarted it, so how did Ynnead choose Yvraine?"

A shadow passed across Eldrad's face. "We were not wholly unsuccessful. A small shard of Ynnead was summoned and it communed to us through Yvraine crying for conception, Ynnead wants to be born and we will grant him life for he is our last hope against She Who Thirsts."

"You and Yvraine…"

"A duumvirate, I have the high seat but it is through Yvraine and the Ynnari that Ynnead sees the future and holds the most hope for they are our future; they tread the sole path that does not end in our complete annihilation."

"And the…"

"Save questions for another time, child, we approach the Whisperer's Glory," Eldrad touched Izuru on the shoulder and pointed out their destination. "The corsair raider bereft of the Druchii adornments, just to the left of the Aconite Frigate; it bears the sword of Biel-Tan."

"I see," Izuru recognised the rune decorating the smooth flank of the raider strangely a deep blue and silver, different from the normal red and gold. She made no comment on it.

"Remain by my side and do not speak, if you must then it will be as our ancestors once conversed."

"I understand."

"You will not be granted audience with the Prophets of Ynnead. Once aboard the Glory you and I must take separate paths, your command awaits."

"Who are the Prophets of Ynnead?" Izuru asked.

"The emissary and the Visarch, Yvraine and the Sword of Ynnead together – you will not see them."

"If this is farewell…"

"Not for a while. I know you have questions unanswered, Izuru and I wish with all my heart I could give you answers but what you wish to know lies with the humans, they are holding the key and guarding the door, you must find your own way through."

"A command you say – a company of rangers was it?"

"150. With 150 rangers you can hold up an entire armoured division, remove the heads of armies, and sow the seeds of terror in the hearts of your enemies." Eldrad's voice was little more than a whisper, "You will not be seen you will not be heard, you are nothing more than a whisper in the breeze, a shadow in the night… prey upon the prey."

"You honour me, Ulthranwé," Izuru made the sign of Ulthwé and bowed.

"The honour is mine, captain-of-rangers. It is time you rose above your station, step away from the loner and forget the outcast, you are now a leader of warriors and henceforth shall act as such. Carry yourself with dignity and grace, be merciful and protect those that cannot protect themselves and – this is for you and you personally – however conflicted you are about your roots…"

"Ulthranwé?" Izuru, round-eyed looked up at Eldrad as a child would a parent.

"It does not matter whether you choose to be one of us or one of them you will _always_ have my support and my love."

Swallowing Izuru looked away embarrassed and feeling wholly unworthy of Eldrad's paternal affection for her. It became startlingly clear when she found the courage to meet his eyes once more just how much the old seer cared.

"Surely your daughter—"

"Macha is… she is not you and you are a good person. Macha has never truly loved someone, the concept of it, devoting herself to another and vice-versa has never occurred to her. She has never served another out of affection only being served in return if it benefits her. You – daughter of Alaitoc – have given your life to serve others, never expecting it in return. You are a _good_ person, Izuru you have experienced the galaxy firsthand, our people and the humans and there is no one better to succeed me when I depart this life." Eldrad drew back his sleeve and revealed the crystalline growth on his arm. "One hundred years, maybe less and I will be gone. Time does not permit formal ceremony so I shall be brief: Come the day of my ascension all titles, ranks, and ownership I do grant thee."

"I cannot pretend to be your daughter any longer. I had a father though I am not sure now whether he even was my father, you know who your daughter is."

"Yes, you _are_ my daughter."

Hundreds of aspect warriors from craftworlds unnumbered stood in thick ranks in the hangar silently awaiting the return of the farseer. Izuru, catching a glimpse of the crowds through the twin ranks of the honour guard as they disembarked, shrunk back overcome with shyness.

"No, do not walk behind forgotten like a servant," Eldrad paused on the ramp and turned back to Izuru, holding a hand out to her. "Walk by my side proudly, head up, shoulders back."

"I am scared," Izuru murmured, taking Eldrad's hand.

"Higher," Eldrad lifted Izuru's hand so it was held lightly in between them at her shoulder height. "Be safe in the knowledge that your children are being cared for, and think of your lost love."

"I struggle to remember the latter's face, his voice," Izuru let herself be led out from under the shadow of the docked corvette. Seeing the crowd and the pikes overhead forming a triangular corridor she had to walk down made her catch her breath.

"You are powerful, noble and beautiful," Eldrad whispered to her. "There is no being more deserving of this – hush now."

With as much grace as she could muster Izuru journeyed the great length of the forest of pikes, Eldrad at her side, they were met by a troupe of Eldar in bright colours and pale, jovial faces: Harlequins.

"Noble Rillietann, may the laughter of Cegorach light up your path," Eldrad, stopping before a Harlequin Shadowseer very different from its companions, bowed. Izuru bowed with him.

"Esteemed Farseer of Ulthwé, may the blessings of the Phoenix Lords bring clarity to the path you tread," the Shadowseer, her voice clearly female, replied bowing in return. Her attire, no less gaudy than the other Harlequins glittered fancifully. A sea green hood was drawn over a smooth, opaque mask of teal that completely covered her face. Two tall bone-coloured tubes rose three feet upwards from an apparatus fixed to the jewel-encrusted plate on her back and in her right hand was a striped staff tipped with a silver skull.

 _Shadowseer Sylandri Veilwalker_ , _this is her troupe,_ Eldrad relayed to Izuru through their minds.

"A new face, I do not recall seeing you," Sylandri's mask tilted in Izuru's direction. "Ranger of Alaitoc and sampler of _foreign_ fruits."

"Honoured Shadowseer you stand before Izuru Numerial my adopted daughter, citizen of craftworlds three, captain-of-rangers, and conqueror of the Void Dragons."

Izuru noticed the wicked grins on a few of the Harlequins' disturbingly white faces. If they could see it plain as day then Shadowseer Veilwalker could too. She wished Eldrad had not mentioned the incident with the corsairs worrying that if it became widespread knowledge it could land her in trouble as it had with Macha.

"Well met, captain-of-rangers, you are well-travelled for a being of your age," Sylandri said levelly, her obscured face completely unreadable. In reply Izuru made the sign of Ulthwé and bowed deeply keeping silent.

"I humbly request an audience with the Prophets of Ynnead," Eldrad said. "Alone," he added, remembering Izuru.

"My Lady Yvraine and the Sword of Ynnead await your presence," Sylandri invited Eldrad to walk by her side. Izuru was left trailing behind, the whispers of the grinning Harlequins poking at her deformities floating into her ears.

Excluded from the conversation Eldrad and Shadowseer Veilwalker were having Izuru turned her gaze outwards at the layout of the corsair raider. Partway between the clean, polished wraithbone that was customary aboard ships of Alaitoc or Ulthwé and the dark, evil-looking spikes and warped architecture of Druchii-owned warships the raider both intrigued and unnerved her in equal measure. Izuru had also never seen so many different warrior castes in such close proximity to one another, not even the expeditionary force aboard the great Arabulucu was this diverse, but there was only one particular caste missing and this saddened her greatly; rangers. In the sea of reds, blues, golds, pinks, greens, and whites there was not a single cameleoline pattern of green, brown, and khaki to be seen. Keeping her dismay muted and to herself Izuru tore her eyes from the aspect warriors intermingling with the Druchii remembering Eldrad's promise.

 _So few rangers have come, I missed their presence_ _amongst the expeditionary fleet, Ulthranwé, it appears they are absent here too._

 _No, those that are present came from Alaitoc your home, they await you in a different place,_ Eldrad said to her whilst appearing solely focused on Sylandri. _Go now_ , _be safe, my daughter._

The procession was veering off to the left towards a towering portal that shimmered from the crystals it was decorated with. Izuru knew she would be barred entry and slipped out between the file of Harlequins, their curious sniffing she ignored.

 _Goodbye, father,_ she said for it was goodbye, she would never see Eldrad Ulthran again her head told her so, her heart stubbornly clung to the notion that they would see each other safe in the near future. There was a special term in her language: _Killithikadya_ that meant 'in the near future' and she dearly wished she would see her father again in _Killithikadya_ as she knew she would Keladi and her children.

Whispers followed the lone ranger as they always did. Hisses of disgust came from the black-clad Druchii with deathly pale skin, paler and sicklier than the Harlequins. Most aspect warriors crowding the gangways overlooking deep chasms and chambers rumbling to the sound of chatter ignored her being not of their caste therefore an outsider and little better than an outcast. Shrieks of laughter from individual Harlequins, some dancing, some playing musical instruments provoked barks of annoyance from some of the sterner unit commanders either drilling their warriors or conversing with them, rehearsing battle plans and tactics that needed to be observed during combined arms warfare. Seeing so many tight-knit groups reminded Izuru just how detached she was from what would be considered normal for a warrior of the craftworld, she had no comrades to confide in, no superior to voice her worries to, everyone had somebody else to keep an eye on in battle; she had no-one.

They found her, but they were not whom she had been expecting. It started with a slow silence that spread through the tunnels quickly reaching the solitary corner Izuru had found herself. Sensing the change in atmosphere she removed her hood and stepped from the shadows, worming her way through the thickening crowd that had turned out to observe whoever or whatever would shortly pass by.

"The Pathfinders return," a voice closeby announced.

 _Pathfinders!_ The name rang clearly in Izuru's head. Memories of her younger days on Alaitoc and her training resurged, she had been prime pathfinder material and had eagerly accepted the offer to stand at the trials once the initial phases of her ranger training were complete. It came a great disappointment to her when she was informed that she had not passed the trials, it was her fast and last bout at the coveted title that so few had to their name. Once the quiet ceremony was over that was that, the pathfinders were done with Izuru Numerial and the ninety-eight others.

"They bring tidings of woe!" a Fire Dragon exclaimed to the other half of his weapons team.

"I cannot see!"

There was much jostling as warriors from many different castes vied for the front row, an unobstructed view of the legendary marksmen as the first few came into sight. Expecting the 150-strong ranger company to arrive proudly and with fanfare Izuru saw instead to her dismay a thin line of Eldar in cameleoline similar to hers but theirs were blackened, torn and stained with blood. Those with uncovered faces that weren't wrapped in greasy bandages wore exhausted, haunted looks. Pairs of bright white eyes, reddened from lack of sleep and flitting around nervously stared out from under dark brows flecked with muck.

"What news?" someone called to the leader of the ragged column. "Ill tidings?"

The pathfinder leader, bareheaded, his helmet dangling from his belt did not reply, he did not even blink. Like his comrades he was in the throes of partial shock and his movements were slightly sluggish, his grey-blue eyes dull and disinterested in the gathered company. A lasblaster was tucked in a holster across his chestpiece the battered plate itself bearing indentations where it had deflected shrapnel. It too was stained dark with blood.

Izuru watched the pathfinder glance straight through her as if she did not exist merely adjusting his slung Splinter Carbine and saying tonelessly, "Where's Izuru Numerial, ranger?"

"Well met, brother-ranger," Izuru, taken aback by the heavy-hearted drawl, stepped forwards and tentatively raised a hand in greeting. "You stand before her." She added with the sign of Ulthwé.

"Korr Nightspear, lieutenant of the Third Scout Caste, The Wayforger's Own," the pathfinder said listlessly without meeting Izuru's eyes. "We've been assigned to you."

"Very well…" Izuru glanced past him at the weary band. One ranger, a young male with his right arm severed just below the shoulder, caught her eye. In the slow second their eyes were locked Izuru saw the emptiness and felt the fragile, shattered state of the youths' mind which did not understand why he no longer had feeling in his right hand, or why he could not speak. The frozen, unblinking stare was still fixed in place when the youth tried to pull away from a taller ranger who had his arm around his shoulder. A quick, comforting whisper and a firm grip settled the youth's confusion momentarily. He was not the only ranger affected, many more looked on the verge of collapse, tear tracts had cut clean lines down their cheeks, a few with no obvious wounds were being carried in between their friends.

The sight of her brothers' dejected faces and the aura of defeat that hung around them tugged painfully at Izuru's heart, to her rangers were a symbol of victory and the purity of the craftworld Eldar at least that was what she had believed before experiencing the galaxy outside the borders of Alaitoc. To see the elite pathfinders, a proud, very exclusive and tight-knit company in such a pitiable state after an action served to reinforce the fact that the situation was very bad indeed.

It was not until a short while later when the 'company' had settled themselves across a long walkway and two adjacent chambers that Izuru asked Korr Nightspear the question. Sitting directly opposite her on a crate of shuriken clips the pathfinder, previously silent, looked slowly up at her.

"Cadia," he said. "Cadia happened to us."

"You have been there?" Izuru leant forwards eagerly.

"We were there for twelve cycles," Korr continued, his voice raspy. "150 of us were acting as a security force for a team of bone-singers and machine-singers whilst they constructed a Webway portal that could bring our main force through and assault Chaos from the rear. We had not anticipated the speed and violence of the Chaos attack when it came on the third cycle. There were creatures, daemons I had never laid eyes on before amongst them…" Korr trailed off stroking the dark shadows underneath his chin.

"What of the portal, is it operational?"

"The machine-singers tested the portal – by fleeing through it the instant they had finished it," Korr said. "There were 150 of us before, now we are thirty-one."

"We have to go back through it," Izuru said careful to meet Korr's eye. "It is our only safe route to Cadia—"

"It is not safe," Korr pulled back his hood and ran a mud-caked gauntlet through locks of singed hair sticky with blood. "For reasons I cannot discern the bone-singers sang their song on the edge of a plateau, a sheer drop of sixty feet to a dried-up river below. In the other direction are old bunkers used in live-fire exercise by Cadian child soldiers – Whiteshields – they are now in Chaos hands as is the entire plateau maybe nine, ten kilometres square. Marksmanship can only do so much against hordes, and that is what they have: hordes and hordes of bodies, human and other to hurl at us."

"Why did the bone-singers—?"

"Why did our hedonism spawn the Great Serpent?" Korr said with great bitterness. "You ask them, you ask them why they did what they did…"

"The entire plateau is covered?"

"The killzones start thirty yards in, that is where the bodies start too," Korr covered his brow with his hand as if he did not want Izuru to see his eyes. "We left eighty brothers and sisters behind, we heard them calling to us through the smoke when we retreated."

"We have to go back to Cadia," Izuru repeated.

"We cannot do a thing with thirty rangers, not whilst the enemy is entrenched behind ferrocrete and has mortars and artillery ranged in."

"Did you try scaling the cliff-face?"

"The Cadians sow mines around the perimeter of their training grounds to discourage desertions. We walked into a field of spring mines, the types that don't kill you just…"

"There must be a path through."

"We have neither the training nor the equipment for a mass sweep," Korr scratched at a long scab running down his cheek. "We are cornered, our only ways out are a meatgrinder or, forgoing that the plan is discarded and we announce our presence loudly to Chaos and Imperial alike with a thrust into the Cadian System – ahhh," Korr winced as blood trickled down from a cut on his scalp. "It keeps opening up."

"Here," Izuru delved into a discarded pile of equipment by her feet and found a small healing kit.

"They kept hitting me in the head," Korr closed his eyes as Izuru dabbed at the wound on his scalp. "I was afraid my brain would leak out."

"It is shallow, the skin will heal quickly," Izuru said.

Korr grunted in acknowledgment then tilted his head upwards and sniffed Izuru's bare wrist. "Clean skin. I almost forgot what it smelt like."

"I was as feral-smelling as you were not so long ago too," Izuru replied feeling the tip of Korr's nose brush her skin; it tickled.

"Why do you carry a human firearm?" Korr inquired, seeing the Moses' square butt when Izuru lifted her arm up.

"Why do you carry a Druchii weapon?" Izuru shot back, noting the exotic carbine resting against the bulkhead beside Korr.

"I find it crude, brutal, but effective; you?"

"I find it crude, brutal, but effective."

"It belonged to someone?"

"Yes, yours belonged to someone?"

"Yes."

"Life is fraught with strange, unexplainable coincidences is it not?" Izuru finished dabbing at the cut on Korr's scalp and sat back down. "I do not wish to talk about weapons though, do you?"

"The subject grows cold," Korr glanced at his carbine then back at Izuru.

"Once you are rested gather your warriors for a briefing."

"Do not send us back alone there are too many of us lying out there already," Korr said. There was no trace of threat in his voice and no insolence either just tiredness. "How many brother-rangers have you lost?"

"It has been too long since I have been in their company…"

"Three, I have lost three in the past three cycles: two brothers and one sister," Korr's stare never faltered. "I hope it was worth it."

"It was."

"Do you know that? Does your Ulthranwé know that?"

"Inform all non-wounded that their new commander would have words with them," Izuru said standing up.

"Regardless of how informed you are of the situation on the ground it will make no difference," Korr muttered giving Izuru pause.

"Why?"

"No amount of planning, tactics or rehearsal will prepare you for Cadia," Korr twisted to look over his shoulder wearing a gaunt, dead-eyed expression. "Everything is different down there."

* * *

 **The Grace of The Mother, Cadian System, 40.999**

A grating noise and the nerve-jangling screech of nails on a blackboard rumbled throughout the bridge, it preceded an indecipherable burst of white noise making hands fly over ears.

"Are we receiving, transmitting?" Brigadier Vorbeck squeezed his eyes shut and clamped a hand over one ear as they protested at the harsh sound in the enclosed space.

"The question…" Avele Swifteye's reply came from amidst a small crowd of Stickies that had been marched up from the communications deck and set to work on rigging up a message relay that could send signals to the distant, and still oblivious to the xeno crafts' presence, Imperial Navy.

"The matter – for that matter – is not whether we are transmitting or receiving rather whether or not the Imperial Navy can reply to us. Our ships' communications operate on a wholly different – and higher – frequency to your vessels; they are simply too advanced."

" _Arrogant bastard_ ," Major Lomas whispered, believing he was out of earshot. Vorbeck had heard, and if he had then so had the corsair, neither however paid attention to the major; their ears had detected a strange beeping noise, short and long tones.

"We are receiving though it is not in a language I understand," Avele shooed the other Eldar away, their breathing too loud for him to hear. "A mechanical beeping, your tech language perchance?"

"No member of the Cult Mechanicus uses such a tongue." Vorbeck vaguely recognised it as he left his group of officers and went over to where Avele stood listening. "On-off tones, short and long…"

"A code?" Avele, stumped, looked nonplussed.

"Too advanced…" Vorbeck saw the irony immediately. Turning round he made eye contact with Colonel Zandyke who, guessing it as well, mouthed two words: _old Morse_.

"Dots and dashes," Vorbeck smiled to himself. "Clever of those jacks thinking of that."

Vorbecks' days at the Schola Progenium were ancient history, one particular lecture on a balmy summers day had stood out as it detailed probably the most useless and obsolete method of communication, something called Morse code. No-one had taken the lecture seriously as in the day and age of advanced telecommunications and the dependable soldier-proof vox radio sets who would ever need to resort to tapping out long and short notes repeatedly just to send a simple message? Never in a million years did Vorbeck imagine that he would hear that over comms, but it was just perfect for two different species bereft of oral communication.

"Sarn't Major!" Vorbeck spun and called to his senior NCO. "I need a man up here who understands old Morse sharpish."

The sergeant major did something he had never done before in his career on hearing the brigadier's order, he hesitated for a second. The out-of-character pause went as quickly as it came when he barked, "Sir!"

With the sergeant major away Vorbeck addressed the officers. "A means of recording – quickly now!"

Not one pen, stylus, or scrap of paper was to be found with the officers who all exchanged slightly guilty looks, but then a captain who had kept out of the way of everything previously came forwards holding a blunt blue pencil and a torn notepad. "Sir?"

"Outstanding that man," Vorbeck said with approval.

"Pace Glowna, sir, adjutant to Colonel Gausser, 1 Neria."

"Very good, Captain," Vorbeck seeing Glowna's condition helped the sickly man over. "Record what you hear now."

Glowna set to work jotting down the dots and dashes which to Vorbecks' ear seemed to repeat themselves after a while. He prayed that a man with knowledge of the code could be found quickly, and there was also the task of replying.

"Captain, I asked before if it were possible to transmit," Vorbeck said to Avele who was observing the far off battle intently. "You offered no answer."

"Perfectly possible it just is not possible to receive in the same manner."

"So our people can hear us?"

"Everyone can hear us," Avele muttered darkly.

"What, everyone?"

"The signal was not focused on a specific target, for all we know it might have been heard by the Chaos ships not your own."

"No," Vorbeck shook his head refusing to believe it. "It the Perfs heard they would send us disruptive signals to clog up our comms. The Navy is listening; trust me."

"Excuse me, Brigadier," Glowna's pale face was looking up at Vorbeck. "The message repeats after several lines, I have got it all down."

"Excellent, thank you, Glowna," Vorbeck nodded and smiled. "All we need now is someone to decode it."

The sergeant major returned within fifteen minutes with an unshaven navy chief warrant officer in tow. "Chief, you know Morse code?" Vorbeck passed the bleary-eyed CWO the scribbled-on paper.

"Uh, yes, Brigadier, sir," the chief did his best to snap to attention.

"Stand easy now decode this, quick as you can."

"Yes, sir let me see," the chief squinted at the blunt pencil markings and held it up into the light. "I haven't done this in years, sir sorry."

"Quick as you can now, chief," Vorbeck said, keeping his voice level and devoid of any urgency. The urge to chew his nails was overwhelming.

"Message reads…" the chief said after a frantic few minutes. "…If understood reply in short-term."

"Is that it?" Vorbeck took the offered paper and ran his eyes over the faint writing.

"Yes, sir," the chief said. "By short-term they might mean Morse."

"Captain, how do I reply?" Vorbeck beckoned to Avele.

"Reversal…" Avele reeled off several low commands to his subordinates who set to work. "Your voice, Brigadier," he whispered.

Clearing his throat Vorbeck spoke. "This is Brigadier Emile Theodore Vorbeck, GOC Nerian 3rd Division, 20793689, we are outbound from Nemesis Tessera and en-route to Cadia aboard captured Stickie frigate."

The signal had stopped.

His hand frozen over the crumpled sheet the chief waited with baited breath for the next message. Nothing moved on the Grace's bridge, a dropping coin would have been loud. The two colonels' had their arms folded with their chins resting in their hands looking pensive. Major Lomas, alone in the background, seemed to be in prayer. Vorbeck, remaining stern and silent, was a blank canvas.

The silence remained for a long minute until the high-pitched beeps reappeared prompting another hurried session of scribbling by the chief. Then once the message was recorded and decoded he passed it to Vorbeck.

 _Standby._

"Standby?" Vorbeck mouthed in disbelief and was about to call out angrily when a second message came through.

 _Further verification needed._

"Captain?"

"Speak, Brigadier," Avele gestured vaguely. "They can hear you."

"Attention, Imperial Navy, we are not prisoners, I say again we are _not_ prisoners, my battalions seized control of the ship from its crew furthermore this is a medical frigate not a warship, we have wounded personnel that require intensive care as well as enemy PWs to transfer."

 _Hold your course and reduce velocity to half-speed. Deviate and you will be fired upon._

" _Come on_ ," Vorbeck said under his breath. His heart was racing, his mouth dry from nervous anticipation. "Wilco."

Behind him the officers and other ranks present were now all alert and attentive, their boredom and accompanying idleness evaporating on the spot.

 _Unidentified Stickie vessel this is endeavour class cruiser Talisman, reduce velocity and prepare to be boarded. Any other action taken will be met with lethal force._

"Talisman this is the Grace of The mother, we are complying with your orders," Vorbeck replied grateful the navy were not intending to blast them back into the Warp without a second thought. "Captain?"

"Dead slow ahead," Avele ordered, then repeated in his own tongue to the helm.

"There, three points off the port bow," Colonel Creel picked out the tiny speck that was the Talisman.

 _His eyesight is phenomenal_ , Vorbeck remarked, his old eyes could see only what was lit up by the distant explosions and the ships silhouetted against the green-blue background that was Cadia and even then it was impossible to tell who was who.

"Increase magnification two hundred per cent."

A quick translation by Avele enlarged the viewports' image and mercifully the ship was indeed imperial and an endeavour class. Its sharply curving bow mounted the beak of an aquila on the nose just before the protruding barrels of the ships' port batteries began.

"Colonel Creel, Sarn't Major, go below and make it known that we will shortly be boarded by friendly troops from the portside; make sure no-one opens fire mistakenly."

"Yes, Brigadier – on me, Sarn't Major." Creel and the senior non-com departed the bridge.

"Brigadier, what do we do in the meantime?" Colonel Zandyke asked.

Glancing at Captain Glowna his eyes grey with sickness and worry Vorbeck replied. "Pray."

* * *

 **Endeavour Class Light Cruiser Talisman, C114**

"Slow ahead, helm," Captain James Quarren ordered crisply. The young Quarren, the son of the renowned Admiral Tersio Quarren surveyed the narrow Stickie ship as his cruiser edged up to its starboard bow. The narrow gap between hulls, less than one hundred yards – spitting distance – had set Quarrens' teeth on edge but he was confident in his crew. His father Tersio had said, in a rare moment of informality between the two, to trust his crew to do their jobs without constant interference and micro-management, but above all be conscientious of their abilities as sailors after all they had worked their backsides off to obtain posting on a cruiser so they must be of some worth.

Turning to his executive officer at hand nearby Quarren called to him, "Number One, send Major Isles the captain's compliments, inform him of the situation regarding communications, wounded and prisoners and request he prepare a boarding party for the xeno ship, a team of artificers led by a PO shall accompany them."

"Aye, sir," Commander Vens Hatch took the orders in his stride and stepped down from the bridge, no doubt he would pass the task to a lower-ranked officer after briefing him; that was how the chain of command worked.

Tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair Quarren mulled over the present situation, it struck him as odd how one lone xeno ship would approach their territory and hail them, but the very human sounding voice coming through the bridge speakers had stayed him from ordering the ships' destruction. With the very high likelihood of a xeno ploy in play Quarren shrewdly ordered all batteries warmed up and fire-teams of armsmen to standby for possible boarding action.

 _What would my father do?_ Quarrenwondered. The admiral was elsewhere in the system, his fleet in heavy engagement with separate splinter fleets of Chaos ships looking to cause trouble elsewhere. The Cadian Home Fleet too was in heavy contact with a vastly larger force with terrible firepower, sadly there were not enough ships to prevent many hundreds of landers from breaking through the thick screens of point defence turrets guarding the planet; there were barely enough to defy Chaos from gaining complete superiority in orbit. All things considered the Cadians were putting up a hell of a fight, but they would if their home was under threat of invasion. The young Midshipman Quarren had done too when he had served aboard the heavy cruiser Cleansing Flame then commanded by Captain Tersio Quarren. But in the end spirit and faith could not quell the fury of the dark hordes, Katsch had fallen and its shipyards with it.

"Portside docking tube to bridge," a voice said. Quarren recognised Lieutenant Lee Cordo, the second in command of the armsmen detachment.

Quarren pressed the flashing icon on his heads-up display and replied, "This is the captain, go ahead, Lieutenant."

"Sir boarding party in position at portside docking tube, artificers standing by, medical personnel and a team with communications equipment standing by to follow up the advance party; request permission to execute the operation," Lieutenant Cordo said smoothly.

"You are cleared to execute the operation, Lieutenant, good luck," Quarren signed off.

"Standby," Cordo waited for the confirmation that the tubes' seals were firmly affixed to the hull of the enemy ship. A mechanical, toneless voice spoke in the headset of his naval-issue hard cover.

"Pressurising, standby." A pause followed by, "docking tube pressurised."

"Let's go," Cordo pressed the palm-sized airlock release and waited for the hatch to raise. "Artificer?"

"Ready, sir," Petty Officer Mortimer Vray was in charge of a three-man team carrying cutting equipment, their job would be to cut an accesspoint through the hull.

It was chilly inside the narrow docking tube and sparsely lit, at a squeeze four men could walk abreast, armoured and carrying boarding arms it could barely manage two. Cordo's team led with the artificers following on behind, only after entry was made and the ship secure would the comms and medical personnel follow.

"Take position," Cordo signalled his team to get into position around the artificers as they went to work, Safeties were removed from shotguns, chambers checked, and flashbang grenades taken from pouches. Two armsmen armed with tear gas launchers unfolded their weapons' stocks and tucked them into their shoulders.

A loud roar filled the tube as plasma cutters were fired up and applied to the side of the hull. It was slow, agonising process that made the hairs on Cordo's arms stand up on end. He did not like being stuck in such close confines and knowing that only a small width of bulkhead was between him and cold, hard vacuum. Roving squadrons of chaos fighter-bombers, fast and agile enough to avoid the slow, dumb-fired volleys of the Talismans' batteries would swoop down on the docked ships like steel vultures delivering salvo after salvo. The captain was obliged to put his ship and crew first over anyone else so breaking away from the other would be the first thing he did. The chilly tightness of the tube would quickly and indiscriminately deposit armsman and artificer alike outside for a quick walk in space. Cordo glanced behind him at the far airlock and safety. There would not be enough time to make the distance. PO Vray's plasma cutter was still not at the halfway mark.

Rumours, well-founded ones at that, were flying around the Grace that we were shortly being transferred over to a navy ship that had come up alongside us.

Aimo, the most adventurous of the group, had charged off looking for the spot where the navy blokes were coming aboard promising to lead us over once he had found out where. The rest of us, Cyrano, Leo Wind, Ral Bleak, Kat, Jacklyn Molke, and the cook Azar discussed excitedly what they would do once back on friendly turf. Otto Rinek who had recently joined us took no part in it and sat out of the way. With nothing to do but speculate I had gone to sleep. Aimo's loud return and excited announcement that the navy were cutting through the hull stirred me.

"C'mon, pal, we're going home," Aimo dragged me to my feet. "We're already lining up, just gotta wait for the navy to cut through the hull."

Ignoring the high-spirited chatter I picked up my Lecta and went to kneel beside Rinek. "Navy's come for us," I said quietly. "We're gonna be goin' home, you can come with us if you like."

The thousand yard stare on the scarred tankies' face never faltered, he was gone. "I was gonna stay, wait for my crew here."

"They ain't gonna find you here, Otto they'll be over on the other ship waitin' for you. They're goin' home; you gotta go with 'em."

"They're not goin' home," Rinek stared away into space. "They're not goin' home because I left Golli and Teren on Nemtess, and Ozzi's zipped up here in a bodybag waiting for a transfer into a long box with metal handles." He said the last part with a great bitterness in his voice. "Wasted, the lot of 'em."

"Don't mean nothin', not a thing," I tried consoling him. "You've lost brothers, so 'ave I, we all did, just gotta keep on goin' nothin' else we can do."

"I'll be on behind you sometime," Rinek said.

"Alright, see you soon," I patted him on the shoulder and followed in the direction the others had gone.

The line Aimo discovered had trebled in length by the time I reached the back a great many turns from the glowing ring in the hull. I met Ral and Leo who were standing at the very back trying to see over the many lines of waiting grunts.

"Scuttlebutt?" I asked.

"Just like Nemtess, whole lot of lines waiting and not much else going on," Leo said, standing on tiptoes. His considerable height, maybe six foot four allowed him to see over quite a few heads. "No, we're a long way back. It looks like the queue goes round a corner then some more."

"Put someone on your shoulders," Aimo, a few spaces ahead, turned and pointed an overhanging finger at Azar. "Cookie's good for that."

"Eh, I'm not a fucking child," Azar snapped, pushing Aimo away.

"Aagh, he's trying to go for me balls!"

"He does that," one of the other cooks in Breezy Gales' kitchen shouted over many heads.

"Azar, be gentle," Gale said, he too was nearer the back than the front and had his cooks closeby.

Spirits had risen considerably in the short time we had known of our impending 'rescue', our previous stiffness and soreness from sitting in one place for too long was forgotten. I personally did not believe we needed rescuing as we had done well enough so far even if it had been with Stickie assistance. Being a simple fullscrew however meant I did not have a grasp of the big picture, the fog of war affected me as it did all grunts aboard and we would soon be back at the mercy of the lifers – officers and noncoms who liked to make a career and more often or not a profit from life in the guard; lifer officers like Max Kaukasios for example was in only to further his social and political standing regardless of how many others he inconvenienced or got killed.

"This lot smells like a crotch." Someone hostile, likely a displaced navy bod, offered his flattering and well thought-out opinion of the ground-pounders he was penned in amongst.

"Yeah, navy, you'd know all about the crotch wouldn't you?" Came a sly reply.

"Did you drop the soap?" Another laughed. "And someone jumped on your programme?"

"Nah he likes being bent over things."

The outnumbered jack verbally humiliated then decided it was best to shut his mouth and try to make himself small and insignificant to avoid further lashing.

"I could never join the Navy…" Kat said.

"Too queer for you?" Aimo snorted.

"That's a worry yeah, but thing is I wanted to be the first lad in my hab to get a confirmed kill and I think – _I think_ – I am which… well, number one."

"Yep, number one."

"What's it like?" Molke asked.

"Uh?" Kat turned and noticed Molke hovering behind him.

"What is it like killing someone?"

"Easy, easiest thing I've ever done, it's so much easier than working in the plant back home 'cause out here you 'aven't gotta worry about meeting target, keeping up standards, doo-dah; all you gotta worry 'bout is dyin' and even that'll be quick. What we do's just a job, just employment, we do it we get paid right, Larn?"

"Number one," I said coldly.

"They smell don't they?" Molke went on. "They go bad after a while, the bodies. They don't look human after a while do they?"

"That's affirmative, beautiful sight a mess of confirmed Perfs," Kat replied.

"The smell gets me hard," I said.

A pair of loud bangs somewhere ahead drew our attention, the Navy dropping their calling card with those unfortunate to be close to where they had just made entry. In the immediate aftermath the sound of laughter mixed with jeers carried back over the crowds to us.

"Ooh, the Navy's getting a warm reception," Aimo remarked.

"Almost like we actually needed rescuing," Kat said wiggling a finger in his ear, "Gotta feel sorry for the blokes at the front though, those flashbangs hurt."

"You been flashbanged?" Ral asked.

"Yeah, doc, proper blinds you and boxes your ears, stays with you for weeks too."

"Ah the rescuers, heroes of the imperium one and all!" Cyrano, slightly further forwards than the rest of us spotted the party of armsmen clad in navy blue fighting their way through the amused crowd. "You've done the Emperors' work, sir. Seized this ship in his name, make way! Make way!"

"Hurrah for the Imperial Navy," Kat slapped each of the bootnecks on the back as they made their way past whilst covertly sticking little bits of what he'd found up his nose on the back of their flak jackets.

"You, Corporal!" the lead bootneck, brandishing an Atakos pump-action shotgun, snapped his fingers at me. I slouched and smiled, it was not a pleasant one. This was a lifer and one deserving of my utmost derision and disrespect. As a combat-hardened field grunt it was my sworn duty to obstruct and otherwise inconvenience this thrower of his own weight to the utmost of my ability.

"I said, Corporal – are you deaf?" He repeated louder.

Sticking a finger in my ear I smiled again. "Sorry, navy, this earpiece is only on grunt frequency."

"I'll report you for insubordination!" He bawled. "Ensure these men reach the bridge with their equipment before turning yourself in to your commanding officer on charges of insubordination."

The men the lifer mentioned were a team of four snuffies lugging commo gear. Unlike the faceless bootnecks the snuffies looked lost and a bit frightened of the filthy, unshaven and unwashed remnants of Nerian 3rd Division.

"Whack-ho, sir," I performed an over-exaggerated salute, held it until the lifer had returned it irritably then did a ridiculous about-face and marched away with the timid snuffies in tow.

"We'll wait for you," Aimo called but I had already gone.

Dropping the act the moment the lifer and his lackeys were out of sight I made my way back up to the bridge without saying a word to the snuffies. On the way we passed late risers, those slow to cotton-on to the situation, and groups of Stickie prisoners guarded by men from other regiments; Cullen Fusiliers, tankies with lost mounts, all the odds and sods that had managed to escape the encirclement on Nemtess.

My senses prickled at the sight of officers, senior ones at that occupying the bridge; lifers like that should be avoided at all costs. I pointed the snuffies in the right direction and slunk away before any of them could pounce on me. A hiss in my direction made me freeze, I was near the bottom of the short stairway that led up to the bridge, no officers were there so who had made the noise?

"What d'ye want, little girl?" I peered into the shadows and noticed the red-haired Stickie Keladi. Pointing up at the bridge Keladi mouthed something.

"Nothin' doin," I shrugged.

Jabbing a finger incessantly Keladi said something like, " _Aveel_."

"What, Avele that Stickie? Nah, negative, number ten," I shook my head vigorously. "Izuru said you gotta stay away from him, remember?"

Clasping her hands together Keladi put on a pleading look.

"I ain't goin' back up there, there's lifer bastards prowling."

" _Nummer wun."_

"Uh-uh, number ten," I wagged a finger at her.

" _Izuru_ ," Keladi pointed at her then at me.

"Ye want Avele?" I sighed. "Y'owe me, Stickie."

Approaching the bridge I was stopped by two Nerian sentries who had seen me enter before with the snuffies, this time since I was alone they asked me what my business was forcing me to lie through my teeth. Apparently a Lieutenant Semirechye wanted to speak to Captain Glowna urgently and for reasons undisclosed. Semirechye was Cyrano's surname and Glowna was the only officer present – also the last surviving office of 1 Neria – who I was vaguely familiar with and likely the most sympathetic.

"Corporal Larn?" Glowna hobbled over to the bridge accessway where I had been barred entry.

"The corporal brings a message for you, Captain," one of the Nerian sentries said.

"Stand down, Corporal," Glowna waved them away and beckoned me forwards. "Message from whom, Larn?"

"N-no, sir," I whispered. "There's a Stickie just down there, a female, she wants to speak with that Stickie over there," I pointed discreetly at the tall Stickie in white. "Beg pardon, sir, but could you get his attention?"

"Is that it?" Glowna frowned.

"Yes, sir."

"I'll speak to the Brigadier, lose yourself now, Larn."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir." I hurried away from the suspicious eyes of the other officers. That major, Lomas, looked particularly displeased with my presence.

" _Larn_ ," Keladi whispered.

"Ye bloody lucky you are, Stickie," I said matter-of-factly. Sticking a partially-crushed cigarette in my mouth I began to chew it absent-mindedly. Realising what I was doing I coughed, spat out the disgusting flakes and bits of paper and indicated the mouth of the bridge. "What's-his-face'll be along most kosh."

" _Ta_ ," Keladi said.

Surprised I looked back at her and touched my brow with a finger, "there it is, you take care now." I left just as Avele appeared at the head of the stairs. I would shortly be back on an imperial ship, back with my own people and the business with the stickies could finally be flushed from memory.

* * *

 **Talisman**

"Sir, multiple contacts, enemy fighters inbound, strength three zero."

Captain Quarren widened his view of the ship with a swipe of his hand then opened a comm channel to his wing commander. "Blacklight Actual where are you?"

Talisman's wing of MA-74 Fury Interceptors, thirty-six fighters in total were flying at full strength but with the drawback of having only fifty per cent crew on their respective ships; two instead of four. Despite this they were doing well in the quickfire dogfights between them and the enemys' Rex fighters; so far Blacklight had lost only one fighter – Blacklight 13 – and that was due to engine failure. The crew had even ejected safely and been recovered by a rescue team. Nonetheless pleased with their continuing success Captain Quarren had allowed the wing commander a freer rein and loosened the restrictive rules of engagement on Blacklight. With his attention now focused on the xeno ship Quarren had forgotten about Blacklight and assumed they were standing off at a distance ready to go after any Chaos fighters that fancied the fat, stationary targets. It alarmed him greatly when he increased the viewing distance around the ship and discovered that the entire wing was nowhere near Talisman.

"Where the f—" Quarren caught himself, the entire bridge could hear him. "Blacklight Actual, we have three zero Rex inbound, recall, recall."

"This is Blacklight Actual, recall understood."

 _They're looking for targets to bag_ , Quarren seethed at their over-eagerness for confirmed kills but also felt like slapping himself for forgetting about the Talismans' escort altogether. This could cost him the ship, he realised.

"Battle stations," he ordered. Those two words were all the input he needed the well-drilled crew could do it in their sleep. "Sever the portside docking tube with the xeno ship. Give me two-thirds speed."

"Sir we have multiple personnel inside the portside tube."

"Captain, enemy fighters closing at 150 klicks."

"Have communications been established with the bridge?" Quarren looked to his communications officer.

"Wait one, re-routing incoming transmission through your chair, Captain."

"Xeno vessel this is Captain Quarren."

"Talisman this is Brigadier Emile Vorbeck—"

Quarren cut him off swiftly. "Brigadier Vorbeck this is Captain Quarren, my ship is under threat from enemy fighter wing and our own interceptors are absent, we are disengaging the docking tube."

"Captain you know my men as well as yours are inside that tube, I strongly recommend you maintain the link between us, you are our only hope of survival."

Aware of the eyes on him Quarren pushed back the growing sentiment and replied, "On our escorts' return we will come back for you, in the meantime do the best you can. The Emperor protects; out."

"Wait—"

Quarren closed the connection. "Full ahead, helm, bring us about."

As Talismans' batteries opened up the xeno ship came under fire from swooping predators. Out of the corner of his eye Quarren could see the portside docking tube had been ripped from the side of the xeno ship and was slowly retracting back into Talisman's hull. Refusing to think about how many men were in there when it suddenly depressurised Quarren killed the feed and set his mind to the defence of his ship. What were a few grubby ground-pounders to him, they were all traitors for seeking asylum on board an unclean xeno ship anyway. Even if any did make it to Cadia they would be denounced as heretics and executed as xeno-sympathisers. Quarren would lose no sleep over a few hundred dead guardsmen.


	11. Chapter 10

**The Grace of The Mother, Cadian System**

Avele Swifteye was astonished that Keladi Lethidia had remained aboard the segment of the Grace that was bound for Cadia. "Young warrior, you did not stay with the wounded? We depart the safety of the Webway into mortal danger; this is no place for one who is recuperating from wounds sustained in combat."

"The marks are absent, Captain. Body is fresh and eager to assist. I would have words with you."

"What business had you with that human?" Avele had glimpsed a diminutive runt of a human in the grey-green of the Imperial Guard and carrying a short rifle on his shoulder hurry away from Keladi when he noticed him.

"A pawn of Izuru Numerial, he has proven useful in the past for her."

"An ally amongst the humans is he?"

"Sympathetic, but he is no turncoat."

"It does not matter. You would have words with this corsair?"

Keladi began to say something but fell silent when a cry came from the bridge.

"Apologies," Avele clasped his hands together, backed away a pace and left Keladi.

"The Navy's bugging out!" Colonel Zandyke shook his fist angrily at the Talisman. Everyone had seen the narrow tube connecting the ships begin to bend as the cruiser fired its engines, now it had ripped away from the welding points on the hull completely sending dozens of unprotected bodies, tiny specks of colour, shooting out into the vacuum.

"Talisman, I say again…" Vorbeck, one ear to a naval-issue vox set froze and stared at the incoming swarms of fighters, none of which were friendly set about the cruiser, striking it with missile salvos.

"Stickie, get us out of here!" Zandyke stabbed an accusing finger at Avele as if the blame for this new development lay with him.

"Zandyke head aft and give me a sitrep of our remaining manpower, how many made it across to the cruiser and how many are still with us." Vorbeck, his moment of pause passed rapped the order out to the irate colonel.

"Yes, Brigadier. Sarn't Major!" Zandyke wiped his pink face, took a deep breath and strode off the bridge taking the sergeant major with him.

"Captain Swifteye, take over," Vorbeck said calmly handing the vox headset back to the team of comms specialists from Talisman who were crouched around their gear nervously eyeing the Stickies.

Conscious of the worsening morale Vorbeck kept his tone even and devoid of any concern when he spoke. "Gentlemen, the Navy had abandoned us but we will make for Cadia nonetheless. Hold the Emperor dear to you for he shall be watching over us all as he has done since Nemtess."

Vorbeck did not know the effect his words had on the officers and few NCOs, whether the mention of the Emperor heartened the more pious of the men or simply passed over their heads. The crestfallen faces and blank eyes said more about their mental state than any words could.

"Captain, does the Grace have life craft?" Vorbeck asked Avele quietly, the latter flitting between the tiny handfuls of stickie crew who were struggling to cover the many stations.

"Life craft?" Signs of stress had now appeared on Avele's smooth face.

"Escape pods?"

"Yes, what do you propose?"

"If their capacity allows it we use the escape craft to reach the planet's surface whilst sending the Grace in a different direction to bait any fighters into chasing it."

"You will be hard pressed to accommodate all, Brigadier, the Grace has many escape craft but most were left behind in the Webway with the aft section."

"There must be some remaining," Vorbeck ground his teeth silently. He could feel the others officers' eyes on his back and imagined they were waiting for a decision to be made. Distant booms were heard as missiles and lascannon fire spattered against the Grace' failing shields.

"With the damage the Arabulucu dealt it will not be long until the shields fail, I am already routing all non-essential power to our barriers and whatever is left goes to the drive."

"We're running out of time, Captain, we have nowhere else to run," Vorbeck said through clenched teeth. "Bring us halfway, we will do the rest."

Gathering himself Avele answered. "Leave the bridge now, you and your soldiers. I shall unlock the escape craft and join you once I am satisfied with our heading."

Barking out a command to one of the stickies in black Avele said, "This one will guide you, now go."

"Colonel," Vorbeck signalled at Creel to come over. "All personnel off the bridge, we are vacating the premises."

"Yes, Brigadier," Creel nodded once and began issuing orders.

"May your _Emperor_ look favourably down on you, Brigadier Vorbeck," Avele said curtly.

"Likewise with your false deities, Captain Swifteye," Vorbeck replied. He detected a hint of humour in Avele's voice but as ever he was unreadable, both it seemed had reached a mutual understanding with one another and Vorbeck could not help but feel a modicum of grudging respect towards the xeno as they parted ways.

Walking in isolation I glanced up at the concave ceiling as a far off rumble sent a tremor through the ship, cutting the red lighting and briefly plunging me into darkness. _Are we under attack?_ I wondered for a moment then dismissed it for surely our escort, a cruiser of all things, would protect us now.

Hurried feet behind made me whirl about. A colonel, one of the officers on Brigadier Vorbecks' staff cursed quietly. Beside him the sergeant major gesticulated at me. "You, corporal, why are you not with your section?"

"Sorry, Sergeant Major," I quickly adopted a respectful, humble I-am-only-a-simple-grunt tone not wishing to get a major bollocking from the senior non-commissioned officer. "I was ordered to guide a team of commo specs up to the bridge per the boot—navy officer's orders."

"Which navy officer?" The sergeant major advanced menacingly on me, a mean look on his flat, pasty face.

"The officer in charge of the boarding party, Sergeant Major, as per his orders I reported to the bridge, delivering the commo specialists and I'm now returning to my section."

"Yes yes, corporal – stand easy now and get back to your section iggery!" The colonel snapped irritably waving me away. "Tell your men to disregard the passover the brigadier has issued new orders to embark upon life craft and make for the planet independently."

"Yes, Colonel sir," I nodded firmly and took off.

Masses of idle, listless bodies all purposeless crowded what had been the embarkation point, a tall, door-sized opening cut through several feet of torn armour plating that now led into space. A faintly glowing barrier was covering the gap, sealing the interior of the ship from the recent explosive depressurisation.

"Lads?" I found Aimo and Ral leaning against a nearby bulkhead wearing dejected expressions. "Sound off."

"We're all here, corp, don't worry," Aimo said coldly. "There goes our way out."

"They're comin' for us, aren't they?" Ral said quietly with worry in his eyes. "Those bangs we've been hearing, they're for us aren't they?"

"I haven't 'eard any bangs," I shrugged. "Course that tub outside's gonna be catching hell instead of us. We're small fish, Perfs ain't gonna be interested in us."

"Number ten," Aimo murmured.

"Nah, this'll turn out well, why d'ye think we've come so far?"

"Give us a spot of hope then as it's within our reach…"

"Take it away," Kat finished sombrely, his LAR was held between his knees and he was rocking backwards and forwards gently.

"I shan't die here," Mess Sergeant Gale, surrounded by his cooks, said firmly. "If the kitchen's gonna go up in flames it's gonna be on solid ground; not in this fucking place."

"'Ey, you're a pilot," Azar said to Leo wind.

"Present me with a ship," Leo replied from the corner where he was huddled. "And I'll fly us out of here."

"There's that ship them black stickies came in on, it's down in the hangar," Azar looked hopeful.

"Azar, your mouth is talking," Gale said. "Them black stickies might take issue with their ship being commandeered. I'd rather my kitchen doesn't incur their wrath."

"Be a gastronomic disaster no doubt." Molke's feeble stab at humour got under my skin enough that I intended to rough him up violently but Cyrano's firm hand and a simple shake of his head stopped me.

"You're not authorised to speak, cheggers," I shot Molke an evil look. "So keep it shut or I'm gonna be jumping on your programme. You think you rate slack uh? You 'aven't got the time in yet like us."

"No-fucking-slack," Aimo jumped up ready to back me.

"You ain't been born yet, little boy; non tardabit!"

Cyrano spread his arms wide shielding Molke from us. "Be friends, grunts are all friends with one another, let us keep the war out there," he said gently.

Before I could remind Molke of his position a second time the ear-numbing barks of the sergeant major drowned out the noises from the ships' weakening infrastructure.

"Look lively! You men follow the colonel, smartly now, no breaking lines else you will be answering to the sergeant major himself."

"What's this?" Ral paused in the middle of fiddling with his empty medical pouches to exchange a bemused glance with Aimo and Molke.

"Lance Corporal Katecka," I felt myself fall under the senior NCO's shrewd eyes. "Police the section up."

"Yes, corporal," Kat lurched to his feet slinging his LAR over his shoulder and calling to any who still sat idle to ready up.

"Moving, moving."

There was a similar sense of urgency that harked back to the encirclement on Nemtess where thousands of men had been trapped between the ice and the enemy, but like with the chaos on the beaches a sense of order prevailed as lines were established with no pushing or shoving.

"Where are we going?" Ral said to no one in particular after the files had slowed to a slow crawl.

"Anywhere but here," I growled from behind him. Being below average height put me at a disadvantage when surrounded by the taller blokes so much that all I could see in front of me were backs' of heads.

"Come on, come on," Aimo muttered, his fingers furiously working the long needles that held the little pink sweater.

Ral had his hands laid flat across one another on his chest, his forefinger tapping rapidly. Molke's hands were jammed in his pockets and he was glancing around nervously playing with his organ under the impression no-one could see what he was doing.

Kat glowered at being forced to wait and shifted the ten pounds of IM rifle further up his shoulder, a stream of profanity coming from under his breath.

Cyrano was reading and re-reading his letters taken from a considerable wodge of paper held together by an elastic band.

Azar, once more under the watchful eyes of Breezy Gale scowled still upset at the dressing down he had received and angry at being ordered to give up his piece to a stranger.

Leo Wind tugged a broken-toothed comb through his hair. He alone appeared the most casual and unaffected by the threat of sudden and violent death.

I waited shutting down all non-essential faculties and withdrawing inwards. All that stopped me from going to sleep was the fact that I was standing upright but even then I felt myself gradually dropping off. With nothing else to do sleep was the logical option.

A collective murmur of dismay rippled through the queues when a sudden tremor following an explosion in the distance briefly killed the lights. For a tense second the breathing of many tightly-packed bodies dominated the following silence; then the light returned.

"Hurry up," a frightened voice pleaded.

"Come on let's go, what's the holdup?" Molke fidgeted.

"Where'd the sergeant major go?" someone asked as I moved forwards a few paces when Ral did.

"Be calm, we shall get through this," Cyrano said reassuringly, fastening his letters together and tucking them away. "Are you ready to go home? By my soul I am."

"Make a good story so it would, all this shit's happened to us," Aimo remarked. "What d'you think, pal?" He asked me.

"Too boring," I said. "No-one's gonna give a toss 'bout some skuzzy grunts who ain't Cadians. Even then it's gonna be the Marines makin' all the stories; s'how it works."

"Not enough action or flag-waving – isn't that what all the stories are about?" Kat added. "Lotsa standing out in the open screamin' the Emperor's name and 'death to all heretics'."

"Not enough sex," Ral said abruptly, "Gotta be some of that, a bit of diddling, 'cause if it ain't featured at least twice then that's me gone; not interested."

"Can't remember the last time I saw a woman, a real woman," Leo said forlornly. "Out of uniform I mean and not any of those refugees on Nemtess either; someone with style and taste."

"My knob hurts," Azar complained.

"Then drop ten and beat it," Gale replied wearily.

"Still, something to tell the grandkids eh?" Aimo grinned optimistically. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna be a granddad. How 'bout you, Larn, you gonna be a granddad?"

"You're branches higher than me, Aimo," I replied stonily. "I'm just kicking my feet about in the roots where I belong. If I ever force a mistake on some dirty whore I'd just forget it, not gonna bring a wean up in this shithole of a galaxy."

"Shit, corp, you're suddenly making a whole lot more sense." Azar of all people understood what I meant.

"And you, cookie are makin' even less sense than normal," I snorted.

"You still want to battle?" Azar said half-heartedly.

A Bark, "GANG WAY THERE!" The sergeant major's granite features floated into view. "Officers coming through, make room!"

Men pressed themselves against bulkhead as Brigadier Vorbecks' headquarters moved up to the front of the queues which were still out of sight.

"Aah, bloody officers," Kat sneered at Major Lomas's back as he moved around the corner up ahead. "Could never be an officer."

"Nah, that's the first step to becoming a lifer," I said. "There are lifers in military and civvy life, many many of them. Lifers and grunts do not mix, just like humans and stickies, bunch o' arrogant pointy-eared twats."

"Don't s'pose this'll be reported, least I hope it doesn't," Aimo said without looking up from his knitting. "They might shoot us all when we get to Cadia 'cause of fraternising with the enemy and that."

"Pfft, the Imperial Guard can kill me but it can't make me care."

"There it is," Ral twisted around and slapped me on the shoulder. "Damn I wish I could see things as clearly as you."

"Don't try to copy me," I brushed clumped locks of greasy hair back from across my forehead. "We're artists of the battlefield; we don't plagia—plagiar…"

"Plagiarise," Ral finished.

"There it is, we don't steal each other's work 'cause that's betrayal and grunts are always there for one another."

"Troop," Molke piped up.

"You rate no slack, cheggers," I replied to him, wincing when the ship trembled dimming the lights again.

"You men, smartly now!" A sergeant waved to us as we finally inched around the tight corner that was blocking our view ahead. With both hands he indicated the row of circular portals stretching back behind him. "Find a ship, get your arse on it and stay there!"

"Escape pods," Ral's face broke out into a smile.

"Just the job," Aimo gasped. "We're flying home."

"Dropping out of the sky just like in the gravtroopers," Molke laughed in relief.

"Bloody good eh," Kat less outwardly elated than the others nodded emphatically.

"Keep us together, Kat, let's find a pod," I said quietly. Unlike the others my mood did not change at the appearance of this miracle, we were not on safe ground yet.

"Keep it moving, you lot," the sergeant jerked his thumb. "Fill them up as many as you can get in, there aren't a great many spaces left."

"Iggery." I hunted up the right hand side seeing only faces crammed together inside the craft with absolutely no space available. "Aimo, any luck?"

"No joy so far," Aimo gestured rudely at a tightly-wedged gang of snuffies who had told him in the politest possible terms to find his own pod.

"Here!" Molke, Molke of all people was kneeling by a pod I had already given up on. "Corporal!"

"No no, we're overloaded!" A pair of hands waved from inside.

"I can fit."

"If you want to try…" Kat waved. "Be our guest."

"Shit." Aimo stepped back in alarm as the craft he was banging on suddenly shot away from him down its launch tube.

"On the double!" I attempted to raise my voice but had not done since Nemtess. A combination of dehydration and hunger made it sound far raspier than normal.

"Down there, you!" the sergeant shouted before flinging himself through a portal. "We are leaving!"

"Here, in here!" Kat, further away from anyone else, crouched beside an open portal and tried to scoot through, in his haste forgetting his slung rifle which caught on the top and bottom edges, clacking loudly and getting stuck there.

"Take it off!" I flung myself at him and yanked the jammed rifle putting it to one side. "Get in there!" I booted Kat from behind and pushed and pulled the others into line.

"You hear that?" Gale, at the back with Azar and the two other cooks looked over his shoulder at the now-empty corridor. "It's like a roaring. It's getting louder…"

"Ignore it, it ain't for us," I joined them and waited for Cyrano to wiggle inside.

"I never seen you move so fast before," Aimo remarked cheerfully. "Ever."

"Yeah you just gotta get someone to throw hand grenades at me the rest of my life," I snapped, waving my hand frantically. "Keep moving!"

"Azar, in!" Gale thrust his soon-to-be first cook aboard the escape craft. "Come on, son, you're next."

"Number ten, this is my section," I tried to push the larger man ahead.

"I'm a sergeant, a damned cook but still a sergeant."

A glare of light caught my eye growing rapidly in intensity. Fire, a great rush of it surged around the corner sucking the oxygen up as it came.

"Shit, inside!" I barrelled into Gale who needed no second notice and was already halfway inside.

"C'mere, son." Reaching out Gale pulled me with him.

A loud hiss of air was followed by the hatch slipping into place just behind me a few moments before the inferno touched the outside of the craft.

"Are we in?" Leo Wind called from up near the nose where the sole viewport was.

"Make it go!" Someone bleated.

"Come on, let's go!"

"CLEAR!" Gale picked himself up and helped me upright.

"Come on, Navy let's get lost," Kat began randomly jabbing at the blue runes surrounding Leo.

"Don't touch," Leo slapped his hands away.

"Find a bucket and sit yourself on it." Gale guided me to a vacant booth.

"Here, give this back to Azar, tell him he's a bastard but he's our bastard," I said shrugging off the Lecta and unclipping its cartridge belt.

"Leave it, it's got pre-set coordinates," Leo battered at Kat's inquisitive hands. "Go and sit down."

"Drop dead."

"Drop dead, _sir_."

Before Kat could meddle further the little craft shivered then shot forwards the orange glow receding behind it until it was a pin-sized speck of light.

"We're away," Leo raised his hands in confusion. "I didn't do that."

"Attention human soldiers," a voice rang from somewhere above our heads. "Your life craft have independent guidance systems. Do not interfere with them, they are instructed to fly you planetside; out."

"Who the hell was that?" Unnerved Leo scoured the high ceiling above for any stowaways.

"Didn't sound human, least not any kind of accent I ever heard," Aimo craned his neck to see above the partition to where I was sat. "Anyone you know?"

"Yeah it was one of the stickies on the bridge, he's helping us; we're alright."

"How the fuck we s'posed to know who you're talking about?" An unnamed private glared.

"'Cause he was talkin' with the brigadier," I snarled. "If the officers bloody trust him that means we have to too now shut it."

A few men stared at me afterwards with the same lack of empathy as before. Most of them were Nerians and a handful were Cullen Fusiliers I did not know. All had the weary, vacant stare worn by the field grunt after he has been in the shit too many times; I did too.

"Looks like quite a scrap out there," Leo mused as he watched the space giants wage war. "Hope it turns out alright."

"Lemme see," Kat leant over Leo to peer out of the narrow viewport. "Nah, too much tunnel-vision, that planet's got lights all over it though."

"If we don't make it…" Ral began.

"We'll make it, sure as a pasty, plump dame's waiting for us down on Cadia," Cyrano said.

"We are a flea treading beneath the paws of the lions as they fight for their women," Leo said poetically. "The champions of humanity locking blades with the hordes of the abyss as the small and insignificant look on proudly."

* * *

 **Valesian Escarpment, Cadia Primus, 14:08 (Cadian Time)**

A yellow, grungy mist hung over the rocky escarpment reducing visibility. The air was rife with a sickly-sweet odour that smelt something between rotting meat and gone-off cheese, mixed with it was the sharp, acrid whiff of propellant and charred wood.

Izuru felt the smell catch in the back of her throat and cling to the insides of her nostrils right after she stepped from the portal onto Cadian soil. Gripping a long rifle in both hands she moved forwards slowly in a low crouch surveying the ground ahead.

It was deathly quiet, nothing nearby or in the distance. The pops and clatters of small arms and thunder of artillery all of which should have been present on a planet under siege weren't there; only a single pair of footsteps and slow breathing of one being broke the silence.

Resting her long rifle on the side of a tall rock a stone's throw from the dormant portal Izuru pulled the cloth back from where it was covering the scope and put her eye to the lenses. With measured precision she swept her sights first left to right across her field of vision then right to left scrutinising any speck of ground that looked suspicious. But for all her diligence she simply could not see through the yellow mist, it was impenetrable after about twenty feet; her weapon's night vision setting would not help her there. Her re-issued long rifle, recovered during the retreat to the portal bore scratches, dents, and she was certain the sights had been knocked out of alignment by whoever had carried it before her.

"All clear, Lieutenant," Izuru murmured.

On schedule the other rangers, Korr Nightspear at their head, began to exit the portal. Silently the veterans spread out with little to no noise, advancing with long rifles trained at what lay ahead in the mist. At Korr's silent command they took cover and waited.

"Has anything changed?" Izuru asked, still searching the yellow muck for any signs of movement or muzzle flashes.

"The mist has thickened, the wind is picking up too, Captain," Korr replied softly.

"How should we proceed?"

"Wait for our support units to deploy: Fire Dragons and Dark Reapers. We will advance in skirmish line with intervals between each ranger with the Dragons and Reapers thirty feet behind ready to provide support where needed; make sense, Captain?"

"Yes," Izuru replied. Though she did not voice it the prospect of commanding a detachment of the infamous Dark Reapers in combat unsettled her. The Skulls, as the Reapers were nicknamed due to their skull-masked helmets, had a reputation for excessive brutality and violence not just towards the enemy but to their own allies. They frightened her.

"When visual contact with the enemy is established we initiate suppressive fire and send a weapons team in to prosecute; make sense?"

"Yes. The bunkers, how many of them were there?"

"Three, one of them we destroyed before, the other two are still intact. Be aware of the interlocking fire patterns; there is less cover the closer we get to the bunkers."

Removing her eye from her scope Izuru looked back and watched the pairs of Fire Dragons assemble behind the rangers. The specialists in their bold orange armour and crimson helmets looked badly out of place when beside the muddy green camouflage of the rangers. One of them was even carrying a standard, a tall orange flag with a black serpent in front of a yellow orb denoting their allegiance to the Red Wyrm Shrine.

"Lieutenant, inform the Fire Dragon troop commander that the captain does not want the weapons teams standing out any more than they already do; remove the banner."

"Yes, Captain." Korr stood down and hurried away.

Izuru promptly forgot the issue with the Fire Dragons when the Skulls made their appearance, loudly so.

"What enemy of the craftworld will we cleanse this day, brothers?" the Skulls commander, thickly armoured in interlocking plates the colour of midnight and wearing a bright white mask with purple plume, said loudly.

Furious Izuru signalled at the Skull to lower his voice. "Lieutenant, order the Dark Reaper troop commander to impress noise discipline upon himself and his warriors. We are not on exercise!"

"Yes, Captain, I am having words with the Fire Dragon commander…"

"I am coming over," Izuru hissed. Ordering another ranger to take her place she crouch-ran back to the portal.

Exarch Sirion Jaro insisted that his banner be born aloft into battle and was still jabbering away fiercely to Korr when Izuru set the butt of her rifle in the dirt beside him.

"Exarch, I require you lower your colours before we initiate contact with the enemy." Izuru met the green eyes of Sirion's war mask steadily and did not blink in return.

"The banner of the Red Wyrm Shrine has always flown proudly above the battlefield as we sing our songs of death, Captain. To lower the colours now would be an insult to Fuegan, our phoenix lord. My dragons would lose heart; their will to fight would be sapped."

"I understand your commitment to your phoenix lord, exarch, but this mission requires stealth and subtlety—"

"Then what purpose do we have here?"

"You speak out of turn, exarch, this is your commander," Korr said.

Not wanting to lecture the exarch on combined-arms warfare Izuru instead formed a compromise. "Once the vanguard initiates contact you may unfurl your colours, the will be no need for stealth then."

"Let us seek the enemy out, my reapers require blood," Arax Blackshard announced himself standing at full height with his Reaper Launcher resting on his shoulder.

"Patience, harvester, stay your lust for blood until contact has been made." Korr beckoned to Arax to lower his posture.

"I do not answer to you, ranger," Arax leered down at him.

"No, you answer to me," Izuru spoke sharply.

"If dispute is settled…?" Sirion looked between Izuru and Korr.

"Deploy your specialists." Korr nodded then turned his attention to Arax.

"As outlined in the briefing the reapers shall provide support fire as well as neutralise enemy emplacements of which there are several on this ridge." Izuru said, keeping her voice low. "You will also enforce noise discipline within your troop; does that make sense?"

"Hmph, quite," Arax snorted and turned away making hand signals to his reapers.

"The captain did not dismiss you." Korr rose wearing a dark look.

"Stay, Lieutenant, let there not be conflict between our castes." Izuru adjusted the bud in her ear and picked up her rifle.

"He openly mocked your authority."

"Yes, we shall press on nonetheless."

With little fuss the Fire Dragons deployed into skirmish line with the Dark Reapers ready to follow closely behind. Crouched on point Izuru raised her right arm and gave the signal to advance slowly and with caution.

The crunch of boots on stone gave way to squelches as rangers picked their way through the ravaged corpses of their comrades and tried to avoid stepping inside gaping chest cavities or on piles of bright red entrails ripped from severed torsos that were splayed out bloody across the ground. The crystallised blood was everywhere staining the grey, crumbly stone and pooling inside shell holes where ripped off body parts had come to rest.

A few beings wore musty khaki or olive grey; humans fighting for Chaos. They had been there longer than most of the ranger dead as the few patches of brown-green skin on their faces had shrunk inwards giving them ghoulish features. The messes of gore where legs and arms had once been attached were turning green and were infested with maggots. Vermin crawled in and out of burst stomachs and mouths frozen from rigor mortis. One tiny nudge from passing rangers was enough to make eye sockets, noses, and ears erupt with little yellow maggots that spilled over to wriggle about on the blood-soaked rock underneath the body they were occupying.

The creepy stillness and the aura of death that hung over the ridge sent a chill down Izuru's spine. There were so many bodies, mangled and torn up but no enemy. On point Izuru gripped her rifle tightly and tried to listen to her surroundings over the rapid thump of her own heartbeat. Was that the sound of a safety catch, the hiss of a grenade fuse, or a whispered fire command she thought she heard?

It was impossible not to look at the carnage, the surreal nature of the dead and where they lay half-swallowed by the earth with severed limbs and bits of bone protruding from bloody red meat struck a chord of fear inside Izuru's heart. Many humans and Eldar had become unrecognisable and had ceased to exist as beings, becoming things. Yellowish, paper-like piles with nerves and tendons dirtied by muck lay in the midst of shredded olive grey and cameleoline eviscerated by bullets and scorched by fire; the stench was overpowering.

Few rangers stopped to gawk at this, they had seen it before. After all it was their brothers and sisters lying broken and bloody where they themselves might have lain too. As the newcomer Izuru was the most out of place and by far the most ill at ease. Being in command and on point did not help matters.

"Do you have eyes on the enemy?" Izuru, climbing over the edge of a shell hole, whispered to Korr.

"Visibility has worsened."

"Do you see the enemy?"

"No but they are not far away."

"How far?"

"I cannot tell. The landscape is different from before. We might be ten yards or fifty from the bunkers…"

Pulling herself up the slope Izuru raised her eyes up to the lip and peered into the mist. It was unbroken and still, the wind had dropped. On either side of her the rangers in view had halted their advance and were waiting for her go.

"Landmarks, anything that you recognise?"

"It's all different, Captain, it has all changed when last we were here," Korr replied. "Whatever stood on this ridge that isn't ferrocrete has been blasted into oblivion."

"The bunkers are close?"

"I estimate thirty yards."

"Tell brothers and sisters to hold here and wait for my signal." Izuru thrust her long rifle in front of her one-handed and climbed from the shell hole onto level ground. "I will observe."

The dark forms of the hooded rangers soon became muddled shapes in the mist behind Izuru. Now alone she felt a very real fear of the lurking enemy and the ghastly field of corpses through which her feet carried her. A strange reckless urge drove Izuru onwards overriding any rational thoughts of self-preservation that she would have normally heeded. Perhaps the strain of battle had broken her spirit into pieces so badly that living so close to death was all she could bear with nothing else giving her fulfilment; either spiritual or sexual.

In between two bodies interlocked in a deadly embrace Izuru scooped up an egg-shaped concussion grenade and examined it. The yellow letters printed on the smooth olive grey surface were flaking off. The pull ring, fastened in the hole tightly, was holding the arming lever down. Putting her thumb through the ring Izuru tested it, finding the force to remove the pin was tremendous; a little twisting however loosened it. Tucking the little bomb away Izuru scanned the ground and saw the mounds of shell casings, discarded magazines, spent power packs, and small arms scattered around; there were piles of them. The Chaos soldiers must have put up a tremendous fight if such a huge quantity of ammunition had been expended.

Pausing before a rocky mound Izuru took stock of her surroundings. Many little fires were burning either on the ground or on bodies adding to the awful smell that was so potent it could be felt on the tongue. Flies were buzzing about, the little insects attracted to the foul reek of the dead. They shared the space with the maggots and rats. A bloated corpse lying beside Izuru had so little skin on its face and no eyeballs left it was impossible to tell what species it had been. It wore no uniform, being burnt off entirely by something leaving a naked, half-mummified thing that looked vaguely Homo sapiens.

Trying not to swallow the putrid taste Izuru spoke softly. "Lieutenant, bring the vanguard up."

"At once," Korr replied.

From far back in the mist dozens of Eldar-sized shapes rose from cover and began their cautious advance.

Turning back to keep an eye on what lay ahead Izuru inadvertently stuck her left hand out for balance, but instead of hard rock beneath her gauntlet she felt the soft flesh of a thigh belonging to a dead ranger who was slumped over backwards across the rock. At the sudden physical contact the 'dead' ranger sat bolt upright, his eyes widening in terror at being awoken. With deft skill Izuru clapped a hand over the ranger's mouth as he was drawing breath, stifling the noise so that it came out as a pained moan instead of a hellish scream.

"Ssh," Izuru soothed. "We are your brothers and sisters. We have come to rescue you. Everything will be alright."

Underneath her firm hand the ranger, a bare-headed initiate little older than Keladi, trembled, his bright eyes, blue like a river, were wet. Great crystalline tracts of blood ran down from both ears, he was quite likely deaf and had had his eardrums blown out.

"Lieutenant, I have found a brother, he needs to be evacuated immediately," Izuru said, removing her hand from where it was clamped over the ranger's mouth, a mistake that was made brutally apparent a moment later.

"I knew you would come for us!" The ranger shouted deliriously. "Can you tell my—"

His sentence was never finished. Everything happened after that loud cry, everything at once.

A wet smack of tissue and the ranger's teeth and fragments of his lower jaw were sprayed in front of him; the nearby crack of a rifle came an instant later. Immediately following that a heavy rattle of an automatic weapon murdered the silence spitting invisible bullets at the ranger's back making him slump over face forwards as meaty chunks were catapulted from his chest, tearing his bloodied cameleoline to shreds.

Noise erupted as a deadly crossfire from hidden guns caught the rangers out in the open sweeping their line. Every single one was hit in the opening fusillade. The sudden and violent storm of rifle and stubber fire was then augmented as mortars began to explode amongst the vanguard. Entire rangers disappeared in clouds of red blood and brown dirt with those that weren't vaporised into small pieces of flesh and fabric hurled off their feet, many bodiless or limbless, and dumped screaming and crying into piles of the already-dead.

Stunned by the ferocity of the enemy guns Izuru scanned fruitlessly for any muzzle flashes or lasbeams her long rifle could pick up. Infuriatingly she could still see nothing. Her dismay was shared by the only other ranger who had made it into the hole with her.

"Where are they? Where are they?" He panicked, jerking his rifle left to right.

"The bunkers are not far," Izuru struggled to keep the rising tremor from her voice as she called for Korr. "Lieutenant, answer me!"

"Well where the—" A sharp crack snapped the head of the ranger around. A wide laceration on his cheek had cut through the skin entirely showing the bone beneath. Gasping in shock the ranger's mouth went slack. He blinked right before a second, follow-up shot tore into the bridge of his nose mangling it and making a finger-tip sized entry wound. Fragmenting inside his head the bullet punched the back of his skull out flinging large bits of bone, grey brain matter, and white skin covered in blood-soaked hair across the crater. Glancing at him disinterested Izuru scrambled from the hole and bellied onwards cradling her rifle in arms. She tried contacting Korr again but his bead was either broken or he was dead. Without that she was out of command and alone despite seeing rangers desperately taking cover where they could on her flanks well within shouting distance, if verbal communication was possible which it was not.

Hiding behind a tree trunk that stuck up ten feet into the air before ending in a blackened stump Izuru clenched her jaw tightly as rounds snapped past her making the familiar whizz-crack that sounded like giant Druchii whips. Louder snaps were followed by splinters raining down on her – they were shooting _through_ the tree trunk a few inches above her head.

Searching for a target once more Izuru settled on a trio of bobbing heads behind a mound that was piled up in front of a shell hole. Again the poor visibility and weight of incoming fire prevented her from engaging. The lack of response from the vanguard was having an effect too. Nobody was firing back into the mist, the perilously accurate marksmanship were forcing the elite pathfinders to go to ground like common Dire Avengers. Izuru wanted to scream at them in fury to return fire regardless for if they all did then they would no longer be picked off one at a time as individuals who had engaged of their own accord had.

Realising she needed more firepower than her precise long rifle Izuru cast about for a cruder, more brutal instrument. She carried a thin blade for this task when really what she needed was a bludgeon. Her eyes rested on a human autogun poking out from underneath the body of its owner who, having lost both his legs and everything below his ribcage, had somehow become connected to the tree roots. Hooking her foot underneath the bloodstained weapon she pulled it towards her, as well unclipping the dead human's ammunition belt and fastening it around her waist whilst still conscious of the rounds snapping loudly closeby. Izuru fumbled with the unfamiliar weapon, reloading it and pressing a switch above the trigger setting the rifle to automatic. Then peering around the side of the trunk which had pieces of bark flying off it in all directions Izuru made to crawl forwards but a rapid flurry of rounds, aimed, not stray forced her back immediately.

Breathing through her teeth Izuru glanced down at the mutilated body, blood covered its face, the stickiness attracting hordes of flies and little stones that were embedded into its eye sockets and in its mouth. She had a wild, reckless idea that normally would have been suicidally foolish to her but no other thought crossed her mind. Gripping the half-body by its collar Izuru dragged it upwards to her ignoring the blue-grey intestines spilling out and leaving a trail behind it, with one hand on that and the other bracing the stock of the autogun against her shoulder she rose.

"RANGERS TO ME!" Izuru bellowed as loudly as she could. Groaning from the weight of the weapon and the corpse-shield she flung herself forwards out of cover and pressed the trigger, opening up on the three heads she could see.

Shapes holding long black rifles leapt up from behind rows of hardbags and began shooting at her. Over the fast clatter of her autogun Izuru heard and felt the fire increase around her. Shots punched through the bone and tissue rapping hammer blows on her chestpiece winding her but she was so high on adrenaline she did not notice.

When realising the strange, backwards-moving body could not die the three began to abandon their position, two scarpering at once and leaving the third, who Izuru managed to hit, to fall back down the slope and lie clutching his bloody arm.

Forgetting the trail of dirt covered, torn organs around her feet Izuru tripped and fell over the low wall of hardbags dropping the body and nearly losing her grip on her autogun before coming face to face with the wounded human. Raising his good hand in surrender the soldier, bereft of armour and any hard cover struggled to back out of the emplacement. Fresh-faced and wide-eyed without a hint of malice he babbled something lost to the noise of battle and ran away. Too concerned with the terror of the incoming xenos the soldier did not notice a squad of his own men coming in his direction armed with bayonet-tipped lasguns. As a lone shape in the fog they shot him without a thought before double-bayonetting his fallen body.

Crouched alone in the hole Izuru slipped out her magazine and tossed the spent steel away, flinching as a high-pitched shriek of an artillery round slammed down nearby pelting her with dirt. Prying a full magazine out of the six-cell belt she was preoccupied with loading it when a squad of Chaos soldiers ran up to the lip of the hole above her. One cried out and they raised their lasguns to shoot.

"KAELA!" Izuru screamed, flinging herself down and covering her head.

Instead of blackness the world went orange as thick streams of flame roared overhead engulfing all five of Izuru's would-be executioners, making them dance about screaming before their burning lungs suffocated them and they collapsed.

Standing a little way behind the hole was a single Fire Dragon slowly traversing his flamer, working it into any little nooks and hollow in the ground. Seeing Izuru he jumped down to her and began wrenching at her cameleoline cloak.

"I'm unwounded!" Izuru protested.

"Your cloak!" The dragon exclaimed.

Not realising it was on fire Izuru divested herself of her cloak and tossed it away, normally she would have been loath to part with it but right at that moment there were bigger worries.

"I saw the bunkers through a break in the mist, they're right ahead," he motioned.

"Where is your assistant?" Izuru shouted back as she finished reloading her rifle.

"Dead!"

Another found his way into the hole, it was Korr. "Are you hurt?" He asked.

"No, the bunkers are just up there. Where are the Skulls, why do they not join the fight?"

"We took tremendous casualties just now. Both Exarch Jaro and Harvester Blackshard are trying to rally, why did you not reply, Captain?"

"I could not contact you," Izuru touched her earbud and found it strangely warm.

"Shrapnel splinter," Korr plucked the useless bud from her hand. "You have the favour of the gods."

"Then let us hope they look down as favourably on the rest of us," Izuru said, standing up and firing a burst into the mist at where the bunkers were.

"They do, this mist is clearing!" Korr said, his eyes turned skywards.

"Let us work our way forwards as close to the bunkers as we can. Once the Skulls have suppressed them we send the Fire Dragons in."

Taking the dragon by the shoulder Izuru said in his ear, "The bunkers are nearby. When I give the order can you clear them out?"

"I will do as you command," the helmeted warrior nodded and hefted his heavy weapon.

"Wait for our comrades to arrive." Korr gripped Izuru's arm to stop her from breaking cover. "It was not a smart move exposing yourself to enemy fire like that."

"It was our only move or else we would have been pinned down and slaughtered!" Izuru retorted. "Did you not say everything was different here?"

Sirion Jaro joined them presently. His armour was marked with dents from shrapnel and the yellow crest on his helmet was crumpled. "I see the bunkers over there!" He gestured.

"Yes, we see them too," Izuru dragged him down by his arm. "Down, exarch!"

"The pathfinders will push in as close as they can then it is up to you to employ your Fire Dragons where you see fit, exarch," Korr looked to Izuru who agreed with a nod.

"Narrow dispersion between each ranger, get them to focus fire on the bunkers and the surrounding positions – now where is the harvester?"

"He never moved his troops past me," Sirion said, taking a peek to the rear. "Damned skull doesn't want to waste his reapers on such an unprofitable encounter."

"I shall organise the pathfinders," Korr cried taking off.

"Where do I go?" The nameless dragon looked between Izuru and Sirion.

"Stay with the captain at present, I will rally my weapon teams," Sirion departed too.

With the sun poking through the mist in places the lances of tracers spitting from the now-visible ferrocrete bunkers grew more accurate. Finding cover in a recently-vacated trench not three feet deep Izuru bobbed up and down, putting rounds on the two narrow slits behind which the weapons sat protected. A third bunker on the extreme right, blown open by explosives the previous day was manned by only a few rifleman and was exposed to the sky.

 _Hurry, Korr bring your pathfinders in we need every being that can fire a weapon_ , Izuru thought as she was joined by more and more stragglers. Even with the increasing fire being brought to bear on the enemy, the firepower of the gun teams inside the bunkers was greater still.

"Captain!" Korr was at Izuru's shoulder pulling her down beside him.

"Our best chance is to try for the demolished bunker on the right then edge a flamer team along that wall there so they can assault the other two from the flank," Izuru said to him.

"My thoughts exactly," Korr hopped up for a look then dropped back again when he drew fire. "The guns cannot cover that angle it is just out of their field of fire."

"Order the harvester to place a salvo inside the destroyed bunker, we will do the rest," Izuru clapped Korr on the shoulder and scooted along the trench behind the surviving rangers. She picked out a handful to protect the weapons teams whilst they made their approach and ordered them to follow her.

Sirion Jaro himself would lead accompanied by his assistant with a satchel of disk-shaped Melta charges though he adamantly refused the extra security citing they would only attract more fire and get in the way of his task. Biting down on the chiding remark about his arrogance Izuru felt she should respect his wishes and ordered the rangers to provide cover from where they were.

Falling back to where Korr was Izuru kept a sharp eye along the trench for Sirion's signal, when it came she nodded to Korr who gave a loud bark of, "COVER, COVER!"

Opening up with their long rifles and lascarbines the rangers concentrated their fire solely on the two black slits where the gun muzzles were causing the enemy fire to falter briefly.

"EXARCH, FORWARD!" Izuru signalled.

Sirion and his assistant bounded up from the trench and slid onto a patch of ground lower than the enemy riflemen could see. Now underneath their guns the two Fire Dragons crawled forwards and up to the open bunker pausing as a barrage of bright blue plasma bolts courtesy of the Skulls pounded the inside of the bunker.

"Fuegan be with you," Izuru muttered focusing her fire on the slit nearest to the pair. Inside the gunner was trying to depress his weapon far enough to hit the two brightly-armoured warriors as they crawled closer but both occupied a defilade and were untouched.

Watching with her breath held Izuru saw Sirion take a pair of disks from the carrier, prime them, and hurl them over a broken lip of ferrocrete into where the Reaper's barrage had landed. The combined Melta charges detonated in a bright orange ball, clearing out any remaining Chaos who had escaped the Skulls' fire.

"Blessed Fuegan deliver them from harm," Izuru was biting on the inside of her mouth as she witnessed Sirion crawl around the neutralised bunker and along the rock face.

"GIVE THEM COVER!" She cried, holding down her trigger until it clicked empty. Changing out a magazine it occurred just how quickly she was going through them. The twelve that were in the cells had somehow become four, she had lost track of time completely.

Spurred on perhaps by the heavy amounts of suppression on the bunkers Sirion crawled forwards without stopping until he was a scant ten feet from the far end of the slit, well within the effective range of a flamer.

"Burn it out, exarch," Izuru hissed.

"Concentrate on the other bunker!" Korr used hand signals to divert the fire from the bunker Sirion was near to in case of incident. Bracing himself against the rock Sirion aimed his flamer at the slit and sent gouts of burning liquid through it torching the insides. Firing several bursts Sirion retreated when ammunition began to cook off inside flinging fire out of the slit. High-pitched screams came from inside, the guns quickly fell silent.

Sirion, his fuel expended, shrugged off the tanks on his back and exchanged them for the bandolier of Melta charges then sent his assistant scurrying back to the safety of the defilade.

"What is he doing?" Korr shouted inbetween firing his splinter carbine.

Forced to crawl around the torched bunker through patches of fire Sirion hugged the Melta charges to him heedless of the shots scattering around him and spatting into the ground. Nearer and nearer he wriggled, the pair of guns blasting away above him, clouds of steam rising off their muzzles.

"Protect him, Fuegan, shield him from harm," Izuru prayed desperately, sending burst after burst at the last structure standing. Sirion was just out of arm's reach of the bunker when he rolled onto his side and wrapped the charges into a bundle preparing to slide them through the slit. Drawing his arm back Sirion tossed the primed charges inside and dragged himself back.

"Run, get up and run," Izuru gasped. The force of the charges would vaporise the entire bunker and wipe it cleanly from existence. Sirion remained stubbornly crawling; he did not hear the incoming plasma bolts. Flashes of blue and black clouds of mud obscured him from view.

"THE SKULLS!" Izuru grabbed Korr by the shoulder and shouted at him, incensed that the Skulls were firing without first warning her of where their shots would land. "Order the harvester to cease fire immediately!"

Ducking away Korr contacted the Skulls in the rear. Izuru realised Sirion had survived and was crawling not away from but towards the bunker. His reasons for this became apparent when the Melta charges were suddenly flung back outside landing in front of him. Swaying like a drunk Sirion staggered upright clutching the charges to his chest and dived through the slit.

A blinding flash resonated inside the ferrocrete, the thermic detonation from the half dozen charges turned the dirty grey bright orange as the bunker ceased to exist from foundation to roof. Great slabs of burning ferrocrete flew sky high coming to rest hundreds of feet away. Any enemy not incapacitated reeled back stunned from the colossal explosion.

"FOR THE EXARCH!" Izuru leapt up from the trench and led the rangers and Fire Dragons across the dead ground, the latter caste howling in rage over their dead exarch. Their grief-stricken cries were amplified by their helmets appearing to the ears as ear-splitting shrieks of primal fury.

Hastily-sighted mortars exploded amongst the charging Eldar but they kept coming eager to close with the enemy. Ranger and Fire Dragon fell upon the humans manning the trenches, leaping down wielding knives and short swords of the sharpest wraithbone; some even flinging their long rifles aside and tackling single Chaos soldiers to the ground then setting about them with their bare hands.

Dropping her empty autogun, the ammunition expended during the charge, Izuru barrelled into a masked Chaos trooper shoving him against the wall of the trench. Tugging her knife out of its sheathe she balled a fist and dealt him a backhand blow simultaneously plunging the knife into the soft flesh underneath the ribcage. Hearing the blade punch through organs Izuru pulled it out and stabbed again and again. An arm was around her neck and she was thrown onto her back where a pair of grimy hands tightened on her windpipe. Korr, cresting the lip of the trench took aim and fired without stopping. Thin razor-sharp splinters fired from his carbine hit Izuru's attacker from behind burrowing into the skin and finishing up protruding from his chest carrier.

Jerking the dead human back Korr thrust Izuru's rifle at her, "Are you hurt?"

"No—"

Somehow going unnoticed in the middle of the chaos a terrified soldier pulled the pin from a grenade and held it up in the air. Pivoting around Korr slammed the butt of his long rifle into the human's teeth, breaking them into pieces and forcing the fragments down into his throat. Toppling over slowly the toothless human let the primed grenade fall, it landed at Korr's feet smoking. Making a split-second decision Korr grabbed the stunned soldier and forced him down on his own grenade. A muffled _whump_ sounded from underneath the body, Korr was thrown backwards landing dazed on a dead Fire Dragon.

As the bloody melee moved away from the trenches Izuru sat upright slowly and in a dream-like state checked her body for damage. Korr's head lolled on his chest as he regained his senses from the muffled grenade blast.

"Are you hurt?" Izuru asked wearily.

"I bit my tongue," Korr mumbled.

Unable to form a reply Izuru watched as the last of the Chaos troops were chased away by lasfire and flamers. The Fire Dragons were out for vengeance, many having to be physically restrained from aggressively pursuing their quarry. Izuru and many of the rangers on the other hand had lost their combat high with several collapsing where they stood or falling over dead brothers and sisters in grief.

Pulling his helmet from his sweat covered head Korr examined the shattered eyepieces before tossing the thing aside. "You did well," he said picking up his Splinter Carbine and climbing out of the trench.

 _So few are still standing, so few,_ Izuru could almost count the unwounded rangers on her fingers, the Fire Dragons had taken severe losses too, and the Dark Reapers; their support fire had been almost non-existent.

 _Arax Blackshard, he is responsible for Sirion Jaro's death,_ Izuru's face turned bitter at the revelation. She did not know what she would tell the Fire Dragons, they would be livid that the harvester was equally responsible for their exarch's death. They would want him dead.

 _Is this what command feels like?_ Izuru wondered surveying the remains of the once proud unit. Nobody would answer that for her, nobody could.

Black birds with ragged wings circled above her in the sky calling loudly to one another, their cries attracting more and more, inviting them to join the upcoming feast.


	12. Chapter 11

**Valesian Escarpment, Cadia Primus, 22:04 (Cadian Time)**

The banner of the Red Wyrm Shrine was lowered to half-mast in memory of the fallen exarch. In the fading light it stood over the fields of bodies, Eldar and human alike, the torn fabric hanging limply in the absence of the wind.

Sirion Jaro's body could not be found, the intense heat of the Melta charges had vaporised it completely, and since there was no body there was no Waystone; his spirit would never be at peace.

One by one the Fire Dragons had gathered around the destroyed bunker and removed their helmets, bowing their heads in silent mourning for their leader. Keeping at a respectful distance Izuru and Korr watched silently. No words were said aloud, the dragons had retreated inside themselves to converse privately; their downcast faces spoke for them all.

"What do I tell them?" Izuru murmured to Korr.

"You need not, they know the cause."

"The harvester is responsible for this; he is to blame."

"He bears it equally with the enemy, but do not seek vengeance for this is a private matter. How the Fire Dragons choose to deal with it is on their shoulders, you are not to blame for such incidents are common in war."

"Then I am too unused to warring alongside the brothers and sisters of my caste, for I do not understand."

"Forget it and prepare yourself for the morrow, the enemy will come again unless we secure the rest of the ridge as swiftly as possible."

"Without reinforcements…"

"Now that foothold is established—"

"I would not call what we have a foothold!" Izuru, surprised, interjected. "It would take little more than a token push by the enemy to force us back through the portal; do not believe we have secured victory this easily."

"No, apologies, I am in need of rest. We all are."

"Then rest, I shall walk the perimeter."

Passing from hole to hole Izuru checked the small number of pathfinders, asking about ammunition, inquiring on their wellbeing, and passing small compliments on their performance in the days' action. The return questions were almost always about reinforcements and relief which she had no real answer to. One question took her by surprise; it came from the mouth of a very young pathfinder, so young he looked scarcely out of childhood. He sat alone in a very shallow crater clutching his long rifle between his knees.

"Can you stay with me for a moment, lady?" The youth's voice wavered. His eyes were staring straight ahead and would not meet hers.

"What troubles you, pathfinder?" Izuru asked.

"Do not leave me alone, please. I do not want to be alone tonight."

"You have brothers and sisters all around you, why do you not join them?"

"I see my dead comrades' faces when I close my eyes. They are all around me, looking down from above when the green light shines in the sky. But when I cover my eyes I can see them through my fingers watching me."

"What is your name, pathfinder?" Izuru reached out and rested her hand the youth's shoulder.

"Leyko, what is yours?" He looked up with pain-filled eyes.

"Izuru, I am a ranger."

"You are like no other being I have ever laid eyes on. Such beauty is not native to Ulthwé surely?"

"Your compliment is well received, Pathfinder Leyko, I am Lyanden-born, Alaitoc-raised, and Ulthwé tutored," Izuru replied, touched by the flattery.

"Wondrous," Leyko said in awe. "My mother always said I should speak plainly and to the point."

"Then your mother is a fine being, you are lucky to have a mother who loves you."

"My mother used to sing to me…" Leyko took out a piece of paper and unfolded it. "They said we were not allowed to take any holo-recordings along with us so I had to hand write the song. Forgive me I am not used to writing with ink and stylus, but could you sing it to me?"

"I…" Izuru hesitated, unsure of whether it was a good idea.

"It does not have to be the entire song, just a verse or two and only quietly."

Taking the crumpled sheet from Leyko's hand Izuru ran her eyes over the untidy black runes. The sterner part of her would have curtly folded the scrap into a ball and thrown it away or even ripped it up. Upon realising what Leyko wanted her to sing, the warmer mothers' side to her pushed the contempt away and gathered the first words on her tongue.

Izuru regretted it the instant she began to sing softly. She had never been good with songs and considered herself a lower-than-average vocalist. Her poor voice, long out of practise, made a terrible mess of the words. What made her continue was what she was singing about: a mothers' love for her only child where said child was sent away to war never to return. Izuru managed the first few verses. On reaching the chorus she broke away and burst into silent tears.

" _Mother, mother_ ," she cried, stifling any noise she made with a fist. For the first time Izuru felt the gaping rift in her life where her mother should have been. The feeling of not knowing her mother growing up hurt Izuru more than any blade or bullet could. Not even the old knife wound, the pain of which she still bore had cut her as deeply as those words had. Izuru's body and spirit yearned for affection which she had not felt since her bond-mate had been taken from her.

Leyko had curled up and had fallen or was fast falling asleep, he had not noticed Izuru's little episode, something for which she was grateful for. Wiping her eyes hastily Izuru clambered from the hole and hurried to check on the last few positions, ordering another solitary pathfinder to take up residence with Leyko as well.

One of the Skulls, strangely much further forwards than Izuru had previously thought, beckoned and called softly to her from one of the rearmost trenches.

"What is it, reaper?" Izuru asked; her professional mask in place once more.

"Captain, observe the spoils," the reaper indicated a few crates and a long tube he and a few of his fellow Skulls were gathered around. "A trio of mortar shells as well as a recoilless rifle fell into our hands."

"Here." Another reaper held up a circular tube that contained the bomb. "Such projectiles will surely fit inside this," he said patting the gun tube.

"Those are mortar shells, if so then that gun cannot fire them." Izuru dismissed it straight off for it was plainly obvious the 2-inch shells could not be fired through the launcher which was a 73 mm type. "And with no mortars to fire them they are useless. Replace them in their carriers and do not meddle. Be aware of the dangers of live ordnance too, I would not want the harvester scraping you out of the Cadian soil with a shovel."

The Fire Dragons trickled away from their group in pairs leaving the still-smouldering remains of the bunker, and their exarchs' resting place, behind. Only one, recognisable by the white teeth painted on the muzzle of his flamer, the same warrior that had narrowly prevented Izuru's execution, was alone.

"Son of Fuegan!" Izuru called softly, inviting him over as she returned to her own hole.

"My lady, Captain," the Fire Dragon trudged over, his shoulders slumped.

"Where is your second?" Izuru asked.

"Dead," he said bitterly, laying his flamer down at his feet and shrugging off the heavy tanks of fuel on his back. Slipping down the short slope he sat opposite Izuru and took off his helmet. "Arlat dead in the first ten minutes, Seyrle, Essha, Hexha, Kaelee, Faro, Rayel…" Breaking off the young warrior removed his fire-proof gloves and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "Apologies, they are just names, they mean nothing to you."

Leaning forwards Izuru laid a hand on the distraught youth's knee. "Remember them, cherish their memories then they shall live forever in your heart," she pointed at his heart and then at his head, "and in your mind. Have you ahold of their Waystones?"

"Arlat," the Fire Dragon lifted up a dull crystal attached to a broken cord. "My brothers have them all except for…"

"You have my deepest condolences. What is your name, son of Fuegan?"

"Varro."

"Gratitude for saving the life of your captain today, Varro, had your flamer not cleansed I would have joined your beloved exarch."

" _Hmph_ ," Varro dipped his head, trying to hide his face.

"There is no shame in weeping, we won this fight, now unwind and be absent of worry."

"Did we?" Varro wiped his eyes. "It is just that I see a perilous amount of our comrades lying around, just as many as the enemy. Is this the price of victory?"

"Blood must spill if victory is to be achieved. With today's battle ours we await reinforcements, Korr Nightspear calls for them as we speak. Have no fear, Varro, fresh troops will replace us on the morrow and seize the rest of the ridge, granting us time to replenish our losses."

"I know it is not my place to ask but why strive for gains on Cadia?"

"I act on the orders of my mentor, Eldrad Ulthran, bless his name. He commanded me to lead the excursion to the planet's surface. It is his wish that we join forces with the human warriors and stand united against the evil that is Chaos."

"I trained to kill humans not to ally with them…" Varro said, stunned.

"I know not why the great farseer chose this, his reasoning was vague but I must abide by his word."

"They all look the same to me," Varro made a face as he looked over the bodies nearby. "All nothing to us."

"Put tongue to rest now, son of Fuegan, sleep beckons," Izuru said. "I will watch over you."

"This is my first outing, before today I have never set foot in the field," Varro muttered trying to get into a comfortable position. "I doubt I will sleep tonight."

Contrary to his word the Fire Dragon was asleep within two minutes. Izuru watched Varro for a time without really seeing him. She stared straight through his sleeping form and into the space beyond, her eyelids drooping slowly.

Korr's sudden return put her on alert, all traces of weariness vanishing on the spot. Plucking her recovered autogun from where it was propped against the freshly-dug wall Izuru removed the safety, aimed and drew a bead on Korr in under a second.

"To sneak up on a pathfinder is folly I see," Korr raised his hands and climbed down into the hole, sitting himself down next to Izuru.

"I am no pathfinder," Izuru replied, setting her weapon down. "You are my superior in all but rank."

"I have no issue being led by a sister, one as well-travelled as you, Captain." Korr produced a skin and quickly splashed some water on his face. "A company of Dire Avengers, eighty strong, will be with us at first light on the morrow."

Izuru's nose wrinkled, it was not from the smell. "Were there no other companies available? We need ten times that number to seize and hold this ridge, how else can we establish a landing ground for our ships to bring us tanks and skimmers?"

"Wise Yvraine does not place this front high on her list of priorities. She is still in talks with Eldrad Ulthran the topic of which I know not. It was tiresome enough to procure a single company to deploy on this 'secondary front' as they so kindly put it."

"We need more warriors, this will not do," Izuru shook her head. She felt like she should be angry but was so drained from the violence of the earlier battle her voice came off as flat and unemotional.

"Hold until relieved, those were the words of the war council," Korr said in an equally dull tone. "I do not think Eldrad Ulthran anticipated such high casualties at this early stage."

"What are our numbers, Lieutenant?"

"Nineteen of my pathfinders remain: seven are unwounded, the rest can fire their weapons but do not expect them to perform well in hand to hand combat; they were adamant they were not to be removed from the line."

"Have you liaised with the Fire Dragons and the Dark Reapers, lieutenant?"

"Twenty-three of the former, all wounded evacuated. The latter have taken no casualties."

"Very good, Lieutenant," Izuru sighed and closed her eyes. The pathfinder was a fine warrior and a natural leader; he definitely had something she did not.

"If you wish it, Captain, I can keep watch," Korr offered. "You seem tired."

"Thank you, Lieutenant but I cannot sleep knowing the enemy are out there waiting to take this ground back. You may sleep."

"I cannot sleep really, not anymore," Korr stared at her with tired, red-rimmed eyes. "I think it is better that way, if I give in I fear I will sleep the sleep of the dead and not wake up for many cycles. Who is that?" Korr nodded at Varro.

"Varro, his other half was killed today. He should not be sitting in a hole alone, it is too dangerous."

"A sensible choice," Korr nodded in agreement. Stretching his legs he rested his head on his breast for a moment then looked up at Izuru. "May we converse informally, Captain?"

Izuru touched her ear, a slight ringing had affected her hearing somewhat. "Very well, Lieutenant."

Sensing the drop in formality Korr said, "You are of the Third Scout Caste, Izuru?"

"The First I am afraid, The Nightspear's Eyes. I never achieved pathfinder grade, I also never gained promotion as you did. Tell me, Korr, are you related to Ilic Nightspear?"

"I was wondering when you would ask after that," Korr muttered, "as so many before you have done."

"Apologies, answering a question, the likes of which has been asked so on many occasions can become tiresome."

"A distant cousin, very distant, we did not know one another."

"I have twins. One is named after Ilic Nightspear the other takes his name from a human."

"Intriguing," Korr cocked his head to one side.

"Korsarro, his namesake is Kor'sarro Khan, a captain in the Adeptus Astartes' White Scars."

"You are unlike any other I have encountered, Izuru Numerial, you are quite… intriguing."

"I am as unremarkable as the next ranger; it is as it should be."

"I had a mother. Have a mother? She had the seed of a dozen different warriors inside her," Korr grimaced and glanced at his feet. "I try to forget that. It was for the best she gave me up when I was still young, I remember her but, I was never familiar with her as I would have been had I grown up in her care."

Izuru caught a glimpse of something in Korr's eyes, the tiniest twinkle, but it was only there for a moment.

"I grew up learning how to hate. I believed it was the best way to approach life, because if I did not care about anything then nothing that could be taken away from me. But now I have my brothers and sisters to take care of and I love them almost as much as I hate the humans."

"Do not hate your enemies, Korr, it can blind you, compel you to take leave of senses."

"There is a word we have for the sub-species, Izuru, you know it?"

"Yes I know it."

"It is all they are, and all they ever will be."

"You are wrong, Korr," Izuru spoke gravely. "I have seen unbelievable selflessness and shameful conduct displayed by both our species, neither of which are the true paragons of virtue and morality. Monsters wearing deceiving masks of beauty stand side by side with unremarkable little heroes whose tales go unremembered forever more. It becomes murky, diluted, indiscernible, and goes so far beyond good and evil that no being alive can truly understand it."

"I do not understand what you have seen, Izuru," Korr said, his head resting in his hand.

"I have seen another world, Korr. It lies across the dark waters enshrouded in fog," Izuru bit a nail, her mind recalling past events. "I had a mate."

"Fallen in battle?"

"Felled at Alaitoc's command."

"What was his name?"

"Ellorias, he told me about it."

"About what?"

"Immortality, he said he would meet death with calmness, a familiarity, an understanding that death has the final word and no being could change it. That is the secret to immortality."

"I wish you a swift and painless reunion."

"Eventually, come a time when I am no longer needed. But I have friends and allies here and I will not betray them as I have done before I am loathe to admit."

Varro stirred suddenly and scrambled frantically for his flamer.

"Hush, son of Fuegan," Izuru soothed. "The night is still young, rest easy; no evil shall touch you here."

For a moment Varro twisted and turned, confused as to where he was, his eyes flicking about skittishly.

"Come dawn we will be relieved," Izuru said, hoping to calm Varro's fraught nerves, though she herself had no illusions that the next few days would grow steadily worse.

* * *

 **Kasarn Wetlands, Cadia Primus**

A pool of red water coated the ceiling, somehow hanging there in defiance of gravity. In my semi-conscious state I did not realise I was upside down until the painful rush of blood sent a spike of pain through my head.

Dark shapes, figures of men moved around below me sloshing through ankle-high water that had flooded into the compartment, not a single one looked up as they passed beneath me.

"Help… help me," I croaked.

"Oh! Got another one up here." One of the shapes, startled, pointed up at me. "What's your name, fella?"

"Larn," I blinked slowly, willing my eyes to adjust. "Can't see."

"Larn, right – need a hand here!" He called, drawing the attention of others nearby.

"Who's that, Larn is it?" A more familiar voice, Ral Bleak, came closer.

"Ral, m'up 'ere," I waved a limp hand vaguely at him.

"Good that's everyone accounted for then?"

"Yeah c'mon, Larn, get yourself unzipped, we'll catch you."

"Azar?" I squinted.

"Scurm," the cook said. "Wiggle your shoulders, the seat'll let you go; we'll catch you when you fall."

Ral and Scurm were joined by two others – Cullens I did not know – and together they raised their hands up to arrest my fall.

"Don't want you hitting your head, pal," Ral beckoned with his fingers. "Smartly now."

The upside-down sensation, already unnerving, threatened to turn my stomach. The giddying height, considerable from my point of view, frightened me; the fear only worsened when it came to me that I had to fall headfirst downwards with nothing to protect my skull but a sea of hands.

"C'mon, Larn, you can do it," Ral coaxed.

"S'alright, buddy, just let yourself go, we'll catch you." A Cullen said.

Craning my neck I slowly wriggled my shoulders out of the tight embrace of the seat. It relinquished its hold on me with alarming ease, catching me unawares and without even having chance to draw breath to exclaim loudly. There was a heartbeat of weightlessness that quickly gave way to many hands getting ahold of my arms and legs firmly before gently relaxing their hold; positioning me in an upright stance.

"There, how 'bout that," Ral's grinning face was laughing in mine, his hands slapping me on the shoulders. "Bet you wouldn't want to do that again, uh?"

"You alright there…?" Scurm let go of my arm. Without any external support my dead legs buckled underneath me.

"Whoa! Easy there, easy," Scurm and the others caught me again as I collapsed in the water.

"Can't feel me legs," I felt my teeth chatter as the icy water soaked through the heavy cotton of my trousers and lower back of my jacket.

"Nah course not, all the blood's in your head," Ral took me by the armpit and hauled me up bodily. "You still got both of 'em, not to worry."

"Where the lads at? Did we make it?" My groggy brain struggled to stack the facts with one another. "Why's it all red in here?"

"Lads are outside. That's Cadian water down at your feet," Ral said. "We made it finally. Those lights came on just before we landed, pretty rough one too."

"Made it did we?"

"That's affirmative, better duck down there don't want you to bang your head," Ral pointed with his free hand at the narrow airlock that was half-submerged. Scurm had just wriggled out of sight, the cook almost on his hands and knees sloshing through the murky water.

"S'all dark, is it night time?"

"Looked like it. You want to follow me through?"

"Nah, I can feel me legs again, m'alright, Ral, ta."

"Okay, go easy though," Ral crouched down beside the airlock and helped me through. "Alright there?"

"Bloody 'ell that's freezing," I gasped, the water seeping up my sleeves and into my heavy cargo pockets. Crawling hand over foot I made slow going, not knowing where I would end up. Hands gripping my shoulder straps and collar pulled me out of the water. Several familiar voices all whispering concernedly at once made my head spin.

"That's all from ours now, everyone's out," Ral was suddenly behind me steering my numbed body through the now thigh-deep water.

"Alright, pal, thought you was a goner," Aimo said warmly, pumping my hand.

"Number one, boyo," Kat added heartily.

"C'mon, let's get up outta this bog," Breezy Gale, a strange scowl on his face made for a slightly raised patch of ground with short patches of grass growing on it.

"Bog?" I brushed off my mates' fussing hands and looked down at the surrounding water.

"Wetlands, mate," Aimo pointed away into the night with the barrel of his carbine. "Came down in the middle of a bloody sunken bit o' land but not too far from a dike mind you."

"Thought we were in the middle of the ocean at first," Azar, his newly-returned Lecta slung over his shoulder, rubbed his arms together and shivered. "Drowning… not nice."

"'Ow many with us then?" I asked as the group left the water and clambered up the gentle slope to the dike which was more a thin line of damp ground only a few feet above the water level and a scant four paces at the widest.

"Thirty-eight," Gale replied, "lost two during the landing."

"That pilot and one of the Cullens," Ral said quickly as if guessing I would want to know who.

 _Leo Wind,_ I said the name aloud in my head. A slow realisation hit me, I did not know who Leo Wind was really, just that he was a pilot who had escaped Grendel with us.

Leo Wind and the Cullen were lying on their backs in a dry spot away from the others, neither of whom in the lack of light could be examined closely, nor had they been.

"Causes?" I looked up at Ral after kneeling beside Leo.

"Both broken necks," Ral shrugged.

"Why you shrugging, don't ye know?" I glared at him. "You're the scab lifter."

"Without proper light I can't give diagnosis, besides I'm a medic not a surgeon."

"Could've been a heart attack," Aimo suggested, glancing at me from where he squatted beside the dead Cullen.

"Bad case of syphilis?" Azar poked.

"Azar, check on Weld and Scurm," Gale glowered. "This ain't your business."

"The Cullen landed badly. Don't think he realised our orientation when he woke up." Ral passed two sets of ID tags to me, one the circular disk-shaped navy pattern, the other oblong with plastic sound-mufflers attached belonging to the Cullen. "The pilot either hit his head on impact or broke his neck…"

I didn't take the tags. "What ye givin' them me for?"

"You're section leader aren't you?"

"They not part o' the section," I said flatly, ringing water out of my sleeves.

The two pairs of tags were taken nonetheless, surprisingly by Gale whose acceptance was wordless.

"Leo Wind was there," Aimo stared at me in the darkness. "He was there on Nemtess, Larn."

"I didn't see him," I shot him a dead-eyed look.

"Doesn't matter, he deserves more than a wet grave and an MIA on his service record. We gotta get his body—"

"Not leavin' him behind," I got to my feet feeling my toes squelch inside my waterlogged boots. "No-one else is gettin' left behind."

Thirty-eight shivering men now huddled on the uneven but thankfully dry strip of land. With no source of light, map or compass between us we were stuck until dawn came however far away it was. Our arrival on friendly turf was not what I had envisaged I thought lying pressed between Aimo and Kat with our cramped legs extended as far as the dry ground did. It would not have been the triumphant return of those thought lost to the enemy but at least we might have retained some form of dignity after enduring such danger and discomfort, but instead our first few steps on solid earth in many days were taken in a cold and thoroughly wet marshland the smell of which only worsened with the coming of an unwashed, sorry mob of men; us.

"What time is it?" Cyrano, previously quiet, lay in his cavalry jerkin wearing the collar turned up.

"Half past two in the afternoon," Gale replied sleepily from where he sat in the midst of his cook force.

"How is it…?" Molke, somehow having managed to stay dry despite leaving the half-flooded escape pod the same way as we had, began to ask before shutting up abruptly.

"Nemtess time," Gale pocketed his chrono after scrutinising the luminous numerals. "Any of you know the conversion to Cadian time?"

No one did.

"So, anyone want to buy a chrono?" Gale held the pocket chrono up hopefully.

"Come round my office when we get back to the world, Sarn't, I'll be loaded up on back pay then," Kat said, his hands folded across his chest rising and falling slowly.

"Yeah that's it, think of the back pay, lads," Aimo touched me on the arm. "Money, some of the old paper and nice clean whores."

"…You're married, Aimo," Ral pointed out.

Snorts of amusement and derision came from those unable to sleep.

"Get in the Imperial Guard, Scab Lifter, you take what you can get," Aimo raised his head and twisted around to grin at Ral.

"If the Guard had wanted you to cheat on your missus they'd have issued you a pair of tits with the right holes to diddle in your downtime, mate."

"Perfect, I'm not picky," Aimo smacked his lips. "First thing that comes along, better than a piece of hand any day."

"Cheers for that, Aimo," Kat reached across and flicked Aimo on the ear. "You are no longer allowed to discuss your sexual preferences in present company."

"Aw, somethin' to hide, corp?" Aimo tried to flick Kat in return but missed in the dark.

"Not me you should be worrying about, me and your mother however…"

"I wish you a million itchy blisters on your cock and balls, boy." Aimo folded his arms and pulled his legs away from the waters' edge. Nudging me he said slyly, "know what Larn likes though."

"Uh? Never says a word when we're getting some slack, he's always asleep."

"Larn?" Aimo nudged me again. I ignored him and pretended to be asleep; the real thing came shortly after.

* * *

 **Valkyrie 229, Callsign 'Ghost 4-4', three klicks south of the 38th Parallel, Cadia Secundus, 04:03 (Cadian Time)**

Warrant Officer Class Two Hugo 'Hugh' Waldo held the control yoke of his 'Slick' troop transport in a firm grip. His hands, clad in green fabric and grey leather flight gloves were rock-steady. Waldo and the other Slicks in the 'lift', three in total, were part of the 'Howling' 119th Air Assault Division and were returning from conducting operations, mainly ferrying troops in and out of landing zones at Kasr Hollen, the western-most of the great fortress-cities – Kasrs – as the Cadian referred to them. After nineteen hours of constant flying Waldo, his four other crewmen, and the others in the lift were dog-tired and all picturing their sleeping cots back at the safety of Kraf Airbase.

" _Ghost 4-6_ _this is Brighteye…"_

Waldo stirred blinking as the green dials and numbers reflected on his visor, and responded sluggishly to the tower back at Kraf. "Yeah, go ahead, Brighteye."

" _New orders_ , _Waldo, divert your lift from your current vector_ , _there have been_ _unknowns dropping from atmo forty klicks north of Phaseline White. Brighteye Actual wants eyes over the crash sites ASAP. Map grids to follow…"_

Calmly noting the six-digit grid Waldo responded. "Uh, you want us to do a flyby, Brighteye, me and my boys have been going on twenty hours running ops and we're coming up on bingo; any other friendly birds in the sky?"

" _Uh negative, Waldo, all available ships are flying ops or on the ground taking on fuel or ammo."_

"Wilco, Brighteye, we'll give the area a flyover."

" _No heroics, Waldo, just a recce. Out._ "

Sticking his tongue out inside his helmet Waldo pressed the pad to cycle channels, ending up on squadron frequency. "Szuz, Masen turn left bearing three five zero."

"Roger, am I hearing this right, Hugh?" Franke 'Szuzy' Szuz asked.

"You heard him loud and clear, Szuzy," Zil 'Max' Masen replied with equal stoicism. "Turn left, bearing three five zero."

"Just a short detour, boys, a recce over an area forty klicks north of the thirty-eighth parallel, control picked up some unidentified objects dropping from atmo landing in the Kasarn wetlands."

"Gonna be cutting it fine, Hugh, I'm hovering a cunt hair above the red," Szuz noted dully.

"Yeah I'm just about snorting fumes too, Hugh," Masen said.

"Uh roger, we'll go in fast and low. Keep your dispersion and watch for ack-ack sites."

Their new vectors locked, the three Slicks' turned northwards and crossed the Luten at five hundred feet. The two-thousand yard wide river, splitting Cadia Primus and Cadia Secundus, was sowed with wire, tank traps, and was heavily mined with few shipping lanes running through the treacherous fields. It was also the most northerly point of friendly lines, everything on the other side of the river – as of the previous day – was now in enemy hands. Cadia Primus had fallen within two weeks; the entire continent now under the boot heels of Zeke.

No-one knew where the nickname had sprouted from. It was reputedly the name of a high-ranking Chaos Marine some said to be the supreme commander-in-chief of all enemy forces stationed inside the Eye of Terror. But like with all Guard slang the subtlest mention of the name had grown popular, spread like disease, and stuck. Every enemy soldier and Marine was now called Zeke or Mister Zeke if one wished to address them with respect.

Hugh Waldo was now watching the ground below, his eyes augmented by his flight helmets' heat-see watching for any bright white heat signatures. Tiny, sticklike figures could be lying in wait to draw a bead on the enemy ships, spotting for hidden VAKs – 20 mm anti-aircraft guns – well camouflaged, accurate, and easily transported. A bigger worry were the self-propelled, 61-Kilos – unofficially known as Hydras. Their quad 37 mm autocannons could put out a horrifyingly rapid and precise concentration of fire. Combined rate of fire for was 2200 rounds per minute. With nearly 320 rounds of air ammunition firing from each barrel the reservoirs emptied in less than four seconds, but it would be time enough turn the three Slicks into burning fragments of steel, glass, and charred scraps of flesh.

Waldo put the worry of self-propelled AA at the back of his mind and concentrated on the mission. He was not usually so concerned with enemy fast air pouncing from above. The Slicks had had several instances during the lifts to and from Kasr Hollen when roving fighters strafed anything that stood out in the Area of Operations only to be quickly driven off by air cover and missile tracks on the deck. Out over enemy territory and with no nearby friendly Thunderbolts or Lightnings to cover his tail booms, Waldo could sense his luck, as well as Szuz's and Max's, beginning to run short. _We're asking for trouble out here,_ Waldo thought uneasily.

Dawn was in its infancy when, flying low over a nondescript marshy expanse, Szuz announced he had seen a crash site in a customary phlegmatic manner. Waldo noticed the crashed ship sticking out of the water immediately after and eased off the throttle.

"Some transport ship down on the deck coming up on my twelve," Szuz said.

"Roger," Masen replied.

"Yeah, I've got eyes-on. Good find, Szuzy," Waldo snapped his image inwards and settled on the strangely shaped vessel that was lying on its side half-submerged. "I'm gonna take a closer look, four-five and four-seven stand off and prepare to bug out if I take fire. Copy?

"Roger that."

"Roge."

Waldo received no fire as he made his approach or when he took up orbit around the crashed ship. The warning beep of a missile lock did not play its obnoxious note in his ear, neither did tracers spitting from hidden guns suddenly flash across his nose.

"Uh, I'm seeing lots more of these craft. They're spread out roughly in an eight-hundred yard radius and appear to be life craft." Waldo glanced up at the tiny mirror above his head at his co-pilot sitting behind him. "Arun, call base and see if the Navy reported in on any jettisoned crew."

WO Arun Ovile acknowledged then added, "Yeah, should I request S and R bird too?"

"Affirm."

Another thing then caught Waldo's eye. There were groups of men crowding the dry strips of land. They too were spread out over a vast area. Curiosity stayed Waldo's hand from hastily pulling his ship out of rifle range because instead of firing at him as Zeke would have done, many of them stood up and waved, some even removing their jackets and flapping them like flags.

"What in the hell…?" He stared, flabbergasted.

"Say again, Waldo?" Szuz said.

"Numerous personnel at the crash site, I can't tell whether they're friendly or not. Uh, none of them are firing, they appear to be doing their hardest to get our attention."

"Want us to close up?"

"Negative, you're both running on empty. Shoot back to base I'll get to the bottom of this."

"You sure, Waldo?"

"Yeah."

"Don't stay out too long, it'll be light soon."

Waldo monitored Szuz and Masen and made sure they were safely away before swooping back in to survey the troops on the ground. A change had occurred, what it was exactly eluded Waldo until he peeled away and came in for a third pass.

"Son of a bitch…" A grim smile broke out on Waldo's face.

They were lying on the ground, some even in the water, and making the shape of an Aquila.

"Arun, got eyes-on?" Waldo dipped his starboard wing to give his co-pilot a better view of what was going on below.

"Could be friendlies," Arun remarked without surprise.

"Could be."

"We're taking a risk here, a real one."

"Nothing outta the ordinary then," Waldo said for this was true, the 119th had undertaken hazardous missions daily since the invasion began; the risk was part of their jobs.

"Szuzy, Max, do you read?" Waldo switched back to squadron frequency.

"Affirm, Waldo, strength three," Masen replied. "You need us back?"

"More than that." Waldo's onboard auspex registered many more personnel in the area, well into the treble figures. "I'm gonna need a lift out here."

* * *

"You think he saw us?" Jacklyn Molke hopped up and down waving his arms madly.

"He's passed us three times, you mug, course he's seen us!" Kat shouted as he and the other men who had lain in the water clambered back up onto dry land.

"That better have been worth it." Aimo flapped his sodden jacket in the breeze.

On following the others down to the water I was quickly dismissed by Aimo saying I was wet enough and should try to stay warm, this coddling I did not take well to and cursed him heartily. What I said however was lost to the scream from the Valkyrie's turbojet engines.

On the fourth pass I saw a tiny object fall from one of the open side doors. It stood out black against the grey, pre-dawn light and dropped to the ground like a stone. The Valkyrie then came about and shot off.

"Oi, you see that?" I beckoned to Aimo and picked my way along the crowded dike. Several others managed to beat me to the fallen package that was lying on a dry patch of ground about fifty yards away. It was a black canteen zipped up in a plastic bag that was also bearing a quickly jotted note and a tightly-folded map.

"…form perimeter as far out as possible," someone said loudly.

"Whassat?" I stood on tiptoes to see over the shoulders of the men forming in a tight circle around the bearer of the note.

"C'mon, what's it say?" Aimo clamoured to see the contents.

"Here, corp." A lance jack let me in and passed the unfolded note to me.

"We will return in strength. Secure LZ and form perimeter as far out as possible," I read, raising my voice to make myself heard over the excited chattering.

"What's the map say?"

"Look they marked us. We're here." A mess of hands and jabbing fingers blocked my sight.

"Form a perimeter – with what?!" Aimo sneered. "How do they expect us to secure a landing zone with a handful of rifles?"

I shrugged. "Dunno, c'mon let's get back to the dike."

Followed by the gaggle of Nerians, Cullens, and the other odds and sods, Aimo and I made our way back to our group. Throughout the night we had been joined by more and more of the dregs that had landed elsewhere in the wetlands, increasing our numbers from forty to well over one hundred; this included, to my chagrin, officers. Major Lomas and Captain Glowna, the latter being born between two Nerians, had floundered up out of the darkness alarming several. When asking what was wrong with the captain, Lomas had shaken his head and ignored me.

"Corporal, I'll have that." Lomas, his hands planted on his hips, now plucked the note from my hands and soon after acquired the map from whoevers' possession it was in. Once he had taken a bearing and worked out where we were Lomas began issuing commands.

"Right, bring the wounded up onto the dike, group them tightly together and have a section guard them. Those with rifles form sections with one another and strike out on all points of the compass. Make sure you direct any stragglers you meet towards this dike; this is out centrepoint. Maintain visual contact with one another and do not overextend yourselves. Does that make sense?"

A chorus of 'yes, sirs' sounded.

"Alright look lively! NCOs police your sections. I need a runner…"

It was time to strike out. Together with Aimo I reorganised our ad-hoc section comprising of me, him, Kat, Molke, Cyrano, Gale, Azar, and the two other cooks, Scurm and Weld. Like many other ten-man sections a number of us were without pieces, our service rifles having been lost or abandoned due to lack of ammunition. Aimo formed a compromise by handing me his – previously Molke's – carbine, choosing to go unarmed and saying offhand that he expected there to be spare rifles lying on the ground if the worst happened and we did get a contact. Kat had been forced to leave his own IM Rifle behind after it wouldn't fit through the escape pod's airlock; all he had was a pale blue chemical smoke grenade.

"The sky's pink," Azar noticed as the ten of us slogged through the water to where the northern edge of the LZ's perimeter would be.

"That's what usually happens at dawn, Azar," Gale, just ahead of him, said patiently.

"No no, it's proper pink, all of it," he insisted.

"Haven't you never read up on Cadia?" Scurm searched about his person for something. "I had a booklet on Cadia tells you all you need to know."

"That thing? Think I burned it back on Nemtess."

"Aw." Scurm shoved Azar from behind playfully.

"They'll put you on a fizzer for misplacing informative documents or, worst-case scenario, they'll shoot you," Gale said sternly.

"Guard's a right ray of sunshine innit?" Weld's voice came from the rear.

Listening with half an ear from on point I turned round and said, "Ssh!"

"As if we weren't making enough noise already," Aimo snorted, stumbling over an uneven hump of ground that was hidden underneath the water.

"Yeah, we dunno what's out there though," I replied, thrusting my carbine upwards with one hand and using the other to support me as I mounted a low dike similar to ours. "Could be Perfs nearby."

"They'd have heard the ships coming down and sent someone to check hours ago," Aimo said, wriggling up beside me to peer over the crest.

"Do we still have the Starlight?" I asked, resting my carbine on the ground and peering through the aperture.

"Starlight?"

"I had a night vision scope in my pack, wondered if any of you had brought it with you off Nemtess?"

"N-no, Larn, none of us were with you when…" Aimo said uneasily. "Do you remember any of it?"

"Just lying on the floor in the basement of a factory and then falling asleep. Course next second I was under bright lights on a Stickie ship with one of 'em looming over me," I sighed. "Thought I was dead or in captivity again."

"Again...?"

"Doesn't matter."

"That Stickie was with you, maybe she took the Starlight?"

"No, don't think so. Doesn't matter, it's gettin' light now."

"You and her…"

"Not now, Aimo," I murmured. Twisting round I slid back down the slope and whispered to the others who were waiting for an order.

"Lads, fan out along this dike, twenty feet between each rifleman. Those without rifles buddy up with someone who does and pass them ammo if they run dry; spot targets for 'em too."

Relieved to be out of the water again the section spread themselves out keeping intervals between each man. Those seeking to dig in found a problem as nobody had kept their entrenching tool with them. Similarly heavy items such as flak jackets had been ditched along with infantry packs. Headgear comprised of mostly soft cover for the cooks and Aimo, the white fur hat Cyrano wore – and was reminded to take off before getting into position – and hard cover that Kat and Molke had. I alone went bareheaded.

The last words I whispered before silence were: "Nobody fire unless fired upon."

I was answered by soft clicks as safety catches were removed and weapons trained outwards. Some distance to our left and right the other sections were filtering into position. Straining my ears but keeping my body relaxed I strove to hear the distant roar of turbojets and the ominous sound of many pairs of Perf boots coming at us.

* * *

 **Kraf Airbase, Kasr Kraf, Cadia Secundus, 04:51 (Cadian Time)**

Hugh Waldo shut down his Slick at a huge landing pad, nicknamed the Farm, just outside the walls of the Kasr. Despite having flown for nearly twenty hours he knew his job was not yet over. After quickly ordering the ground crew to refuel and rearm his ship Waldo sought out Szuz and Masen who quickly told him there would be no lift to pick up the stranded soldiers. Their best bet was to escape and evade. It was simply too dangerous for the transports.

"What do you mean no lift?" Waldo cried disgustedly, as far as he was concerned their infantry brothers were in the lurch and it was the troop transports' duty to come when they called.

"Can't get authorisation from the colonel," Szuz said angrily.

"Have you tried the Major?" Waldo asked exasperatedly.

"Serpent's had to put down at a temporary LZ at Hollen for repairs; his Slick got shot up apparently."

"Right, we'll do this on our own," Waldo clapped his hands. "Szuzy, go over to the medevac pad and ask if a pair of 'em can accompany us. Max, see if you can rouse a Frog, we might need their guns. C'mon, move it!"

Hurrying back across the tarmac to his Slick Waldo was hailed loudly. His heart skipped a beat when it appeared an officer had got wind of the unauthorised action and would pounce, revoking his right to fly on the spot. Resting a hand on his palm-sized laspistol slung underneath his shoulder Waldo spun and came face to face with a stocky young man in his mid-twenties wearing a crap cap and carrying an M-36 Kantrael with several slung cameras about his body.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Josef Herle, I'm with the Cadian Enquirer," he grinned, shaking Waldo's hand. "Journalist, I've been trying to get over to Kasr Hollen all yesterday. You headin' that way now?"

"Not to Hollen no," Waldo said shortly, making his way to his parked Slick.

"You heading into the shit?" Herle followed.

"Could be."

"Well I need a story so…"

"If you're crazy enough get in," Waldo jerked a thumb, "Just don't interfere with our operation."

"No, sir." Herle shook his head quickly.

"Sice help him aboard."

"C'mon, Scribe," Irv Sice, one of Waldo's doorgunners, pulled Herle aboard and directed him to sit atop a pile of ammunition and grenade crates.

"Never had Press on our ship before," Ori Hensen, the other doorgunner, waved and gave thumbs up as Herle snapped him. "Make us famous?"

"Never happen," Herle laughed.

"You're brave enough to want to get out there so why aren't you a soldier?" Russ Reath, the crew chief, asked.

"I was a soldier, served two months as a rifleman then I volunteered for a Photo job. This colonel he said these exact words to me: "You are not a combat photographer, but your job is important. We need good, clear photographs and some hard-hitting captions. Get me photographs of civilian personnel who have been executed with their hands tied behind their backs, people buried alive, female personnel that have been raped and had their throats cut, dead babies—you know what I want. Get me some good body counts and don't _even_ photograph any naked bodies unless they've been mutilated."

"Wow!" Sice laughed.

"Seen any of that then?" Reath snorted.

"You want to see any of that?" Hensen had paled.

"Well no of course not," Herle said earnestly. "I just felt our people have a right to know what the guys in the field are doing 'specially at a time like this. I didn't want to miss all the stories."

"Hunh," Sice made a face and went back to wiping the internals of his door-mounted bolter with a rag.

"Who was this colonel anyway?"

"Don't know I didn't ask his name. I tell you though what the very last thing he said to me was."

"What?"

"This big package on the floor by his feet – man-sized – he called it the final product of Guard industry. He says 'My wife likes to show an interest in my work. She asked me for a souvenir so I'm sending her a Zeke!'"

"He's crazy!" Sice hooted, beside himself with laughter.

"Nope, I think he knows exactly what's going on," Reath declared.

Any further discussion on the matter was brought to a halt when Waldo and his co-pilot returned.

"What's our numbers, Hugh? Tell us we got gunship support," Reath said once the pilots were seated and wired.

"Negative on the gunship support and the medevac boys, Russ, the Frogs are burnt out. We got two more Slicks coming along though so we should get at least fifty men out per lift."

"How many were on the ground?"

"More than a hundred."

"So at least three lifts then, at one hour round trips—"

"Yeah I calculated it, Russ, don't worry. Okay, Arun let's get this bird in the air."

Unauthorised the five Slicks lifted off into the early-morning sky and crossed the Luten at zero feet.

"Watch for AA emplacements, call out any possible sightings then go over the area with your rocket pods," Waldo said coolly.

"Roger." Ernest Gine, one of the two other pilots who had volunteered to join the lift, replied.

"Roger that." J. D. Sheehan, the other, acknowledged.

Soon Waldo announced they were coming in range of the LZ and was thankful someone on the ground had had the sense to mark the centre with green smoke.

"Okay set your birds down on dry land, watch you don't collide with one another on approach. I'll set down first, Szuzy you follow, Max after Szuzy, then Gine and Shee in that order."

Bringing his ship in Waldo realised putting five Slicks down at once would be easier said than done. The ground below him was nearly all water with perilously few surfaces above the waterline and even fewer with space enough to allow a Slick to land safely. It was a toss-up between putting a bird down one at a time and forming a circuit, or finding separate locations to bring the others in so they could load up all at once. Waldo mulled over the dilemma then said: "Negative, there's not enough room to land us all at once here. I need you to scout out alternate LZs for me"

"Uh, roger that, Waldo," Szuz came back to him.

"I'll talk to the officer on the ground and get him up to speed on the situation."

With Waldo down safely the other four transports flew individual circuits above the perimeter scouring out the landscape for secondary LZs. Without even waiting to power down his engines Waldo popped his canopy and was instantly greeted by a tired, unshaven major in OGs and dark blue infantry beret.

"Major Lew Lomas, Nerian 228," the major shouted. "You're the first friendly faces we've seen since Nemtess!"

"Hugh Waldo, 119th Air Assault," Waldo replied, shaking Lomas's hand. "So you're friendly then?"

"Hah!" Lomas laughed. "You five all that came?"

"'Fraid so, we'll take your wounded out first then come back for the rest."

"How far away are you?"

"One hour round trip, we're down at Kraf Airbase, sir. Now – wounded!"

"Bring the wounded over here!" Lomas waved. "Quick as you can, get 'em aboard."

"Hang on, Arun drop the hatch. Take 'em round the back, sir."

That moment Waldo heard Masen's voice. "Go, Masen."

"Two possible LZs one hundred and fifty yards to your immediate west, I'm setting down with Gine. Be advised, Szuzy and Shee are still scouting."

"Roger that. Any incoming fire?"

"Not at this time."

"Okay – Major?" Waldo called to Lomas who was overseeing the wounded.

"Yes, what is it?"

"There's an LZ one hundred and fifty yards to the west, two Slicks are putting down there. That'll be LZ White, this one's LZ Red, okay, sir?"

"Yes, I'll have the perimeter gradually withdraw inwards to this point once the western flank is clear."

"Outstanding, sir."

Unnoticed by Lomas, Joseph Herle had bailed out and was helping Sice and Hensen unload the ammunition and water. Reath was preoccupied with taking the wounded aboard.

"Cheers for this, pilot," Lomas said gratefully. "Let's get this water and ammo in. I need runners to distribute it!"

"We're full back here, Waldo," Reath said.

"Roger, Waldo pulling out."

Sealing his canopy Waldo fired his engines and lifted up into the air. To his interest the journalist had stayed on the ground and was busy snapping pictures. He was a brave soul.

All seemed well during the return flight. Waldo set down as usual on his pad and offloaded the wounded quickly and without hitch. Cruising back over the river he was passed by Masen and Gine both with carrying full loads of infantry.

 _Come on, let this be a flawlessly executed operation,_ Waldo thought. He regretted thinking it when Szuz's voice came on over his intercom.

"This is Szuzy, receiving fire on the western side of the LZ."

"Roger that, Rolling in," Waldo replied, opening his throttle wider.

"Waldo this is Szuzy."

"Go ahead, Szuzy."

"I received all kinds of fire on the west side of LZ White and my multis are in-op. Uh we got red smoke on it, we just lifted off. Where the hell are you at now?"

"I'm rolling in from the south. Where's Shee at?" Waldo, fearing the two Slicks were coming under heavy fire, opened his throttle to its widest and dropped his nose.

"He's right behind me."

"Roger that."

"This is Waldo. I'm gonna roll in, punch off seven or eight rockets on the area," Waldo replied, flicking the safeties from his underslung rocket pods.

"Go ahead. You should see the muzzle flashes as you come in."

Szuz again, his tone was deadly calm and did not betray the slightest bit of concern. "This is Szuzy I'm still receiving heavy fire over there. I'd like to work the area over before we bug out."

"Uhh negative, Szuzy, bring your troops out I'll work the area over. Copy?"

"Yeah roger that."

Waldo could now see the tiny muzzle flashes on the ground as the Nerians exchanged fire with enemy hidden in thick scrub. A high proportion of tracer fire was aimed skywards at Szuz and Shee, both it appeared had taken hits as they passed Waldo by.

With them out of harm's way Waldo dipped his nose and prepared to unload his ordnance on the enemy. "Waldo: guns guns guns," he declared, pressing the red firing button on his yoke letting loose a salvo of rockets. "Guns guns guns," he repeated with a follow-up salvo.

"Nice hit," Arun noted dryly.

"Shit! Break right. I took fire over to the north," Szuz's alarmed voice made Waldo jump.

"Where?"

"Didn't see the muzzle flashes, sorry, we're getting clear."

It was coming up to the most dangerous part of the operation. The enemy, when sensing the troops they were in contact with were trying to escape, would go all out to try and overrun the LZs. Waldo's ordnance could do only so much to protect the lightly-armed infantry on the deck.

Deciding to head for the eastern side of the perimeter Waldo touched down and was immediately swarmed by more men than his ship could carry. "You okay back there, Sice, Hensen?"

"These guys stink," Sice grumbled.

"Want the hatch open, Reath?"

"No thanks, they'd swarm aboard if we did."

"Alright, tell me when we're full."

It was after disgorging the compliment of infantry at the Farm when Waldo heard Masen and Gine's comm chatter and began to feel more and more concerned with the situation in the wetlands.

"Gine, this is Masen. We received fired from the south as we flew over. Looks like these son of a bitches got our boys surrounded."

"Roger that, go around to the east and load up from there."

A pause. "We've been hit. We've been hit."

 _Dammit_ , Waldo cursed inwardly. His ship was taking on more ammunition. He was helpless to come to their aid.

Masen: "We received fire and it wasn't light automatic weapons it was grenade launchers, and uh… it could have been twenty mil stuff, but I think we were too close to it. Anyway it was exploding type, uh, bolter shells and his ship is shot to shit and he's riddled from it. Clowers has got some big holes right up next to his balls and a hole in his side panel that's, uh, well he said he can put his fist through it."

"Throne…" Waldo muttered.

"This is Masen, I'm chasing Gine back to base at this time, he's badly shot up, we took not just light automatic rifle fire and some las, it was heavy automatic and exploding type rockets or grenades or some shit. All this was within a two hundred meter radius of the LZ all the way around it."

Waldo felt immense relief on hearing Gine's voice when it came back on.

"This is Gine, uh roger, it looks like they missed the engine, old chum, it's all in the green."

"Oh that's no sweat then. How's everything else looking?"

"Other than being on fire for a little while back there… you don't see any big streaming flames or smoke coming out, do you?"

"No, I'm about one hundred metres behind you and you look good to me."

"Gine this is Waldo, do you read?"

"Loud and clear, Waldo, Masen's on my tail, and Szuz and Shee just passed us."

"Roger, I'll be over there in a jiffy."

"Yeah, better make it snappy. Don't think Zeke's too pleased about us conducting operations on his turf."

"Heh, yeah."

Waldo felt a real sense of urgency now that the enemy were onto the Nerians. It was very close to daylight now and he sensed that once the sun was up Zeke would work out just how small a force they were facing and roll over the LZs with assault troops. Still he looked and acted calm as ever as he crossed the Luten on his third lift. Masen's warning that Zeke was surrounding the LZs hit hard when dozens of small arms opened up from the ground as he made his — hopefully final – approach to LZ Red.

Szuz and Shee had picked up the last few men from Red and White and were flying out, both with their troop bays' filled to bursting. There did not seem to be any more Nerians still on the deck.

"Waldo, this is Szuz, we just picked up the last few guys from Red and White. The fire's ramping up, better get yourself out of there fast. We're heading up north then looping back around to the east."

"Roger, I'll do one more pass; see if we left anyone behind on the deck. Tell Masen and Gine not to return."

"Okay, be careful, I got shot at by shoulder-fired rockets down there."

The pitter-patter of small-arms on the Slick's armour plating was a mere nuisance to Waldo, his one major worry were the presence of the heavy automatics somewhere on the ground, and to add to that were the shoulder-fired rockets. Tracers were now flying up from many different angles. One 84 mm rocket, a Scoba, was fired upwards, its unseen operator incredibly optimistic on his chances to score a hit.

"Eyes peeled, boys, tell me if anyone sees anything," Waldo said calmly.

"Nah I got nothing, just Zeke," Sice said from where he was sitting behind the right door gun.

"Yeah looks like we got everyone," Hensen gave Reath a thumbs up.

"Okay, Szuz we'll follow your lead out." Waldo picked up speed and gained altitude.

"Sorry, Waldo, we flew over one of those crashed pods north of the perimeter, there uh, there appears to be survivors down there, possibly wounded personnel who were unable to make the pickup. We couldn't stop to check."

"Roger, Szuz, we'll check it out." Waldo felt a pang of annoyance at missing some people but kept it quiet. The motto of the Howling 119th was to leave no man behind ever and Waldo was determined to save everyone down on the ground and bring them back dead or alive.

"Son of a bitch!" Hensen pressed the paddles of his heavy bolter and sent bursts of fire down into the scrub when Waldo stopped to hover above the crashed ship. Hensen could see the enemy running between cover and snapping off shots, and he had no idea whether any of the shells were hitting his targets.

"LZ's too hot to land, insert recovery team!"

"Roger, going down," Reath answered, clipping a line onto his belt and jumping from Sice's door.

"We got men going out the door – cover fire!" Arun said.

Russ Reath heard the tremendous thud of Hensen's heavy bolter laying fire into the nearby Zekes and saw the stream of 25 mm shells cascading from the weapon like a brass waterfall. Hitting the ground feet first Reath unclipped his line and bounded over to the downed ship. "Anyone there?"

Nobody replied. There had been some sort of electrical fire that produced a frazzled smell from the interior which Reath did not want to investigate any further. He was almost ready to hop back onto the lifeline when he saw two bodies lying half submerged a few feet away. Splashing through the water Russ Reath expected to pull out a Nerian or one of the similarly-uniformed Cullens, what he saw made him pause and forget the waiting Slick overhead.

A strange man with dark hair splayed behind him, wearing dirty white armour, and a red sash tied around his waist lay beside a young woman with bright red hair who was clad in what looked like a soaked medical robe.

Russ Reath's mouth hung open, he was deaf to a great whoosh of a Scoba rocket which shot up towards the Slick and passed clear above its left tail boom. The second brought him to his senses. Above the hammering of small arms and heavy automatics Russ Reath faced a dilemma of whether or not to abandon the strange pair. On checking, both were alive but unconscious, and he wasn't certain whether he could manage two trips.

"Sorry," Reath gasped, hauling the woman, who was scarcely more than a child, into his arms and doubling back to the dangling lifeline where he hooked himself back on and got a firm grip of the girl before pulling on the line twice. A rude jerk behind him and Waldo throttled forwards and up sharply. It came not a moment too soon as Zeke, many of them, crashed through the undergrowth and over to where Reath had been standing scant seconds ago. The crackle of the fire quickly receded as Waldo brought the Slick out of rifle range. A few brusts of 20 mm were fired by Zeke as a final goodbye, then that was it.

Sice helped Reath up through the open door and fell back in fright when he saw the girl in Reath's arms.

"Who's that? She ain't Nerian," Sice gaped.

"Whoa," Hensen too gawked at the red-haired girl.

"Reath that's not human!"

"You what?"

"That's a bloody Stickie, why d'you pick up a Stickie?"

"What's going on back there?" Arun asked over the intercom.

"Aw just throw it out the door and be done with it!" Sice grimaced. "We're gonna get court-martialled for this."

"No, she's only a little girl," Reath said, unclipping the cable and opening the foldout cot on the bulkhead. Gently he laid the girl on it and fastened the leather straps over her chest and legs. Her thin medical garment clung to her skin. Reath covered her up quickly with a towel from an emergency locker much to the doorgunner's chagrin.

"You'd better get rid of her before we get back to Kraf else we ain't gonna be flying anymore."

"Why didn't you just leave her?" Hensen cried in near-hysterics.

"She reminds me of my niece!" Reath snapped, suddenly shouting.

"Sice, Hensen, leave it alone, this will be sorted out when we get back to Kraf."

" _Reminds me of my niece_ ," Sice said under his breath. " _Stickie_ _sympathiser._ "

Not another round was fired at the Slick on its half-hour flight back to Kraf Airbase. Russ Reath disconnected his intercom and sat beside the girl, monitoring her heartbeat every now and again, oblivious to the worried, suspicious looks the doorgunners gave her. The shock of being under such intense fire would slowly set in after he came down from the high he had experienced, it made him realise how close to death they had all been then because he had hesitated.

Russ Reath, gazing down numbly at the Stickie, now asked himself if he had made the right choice saving her rather than the other.


	13. Chapter 12

**Valesian Escarpment, Cadia Primus, 05:48 (Cadian Time)**

Dawn was swiftly followed by the arrival of much-needed reinforcements. Izuru lay stretched-out, listening to the earth for the slightest tremble that would betray the cautiously advancing enemy vanguard, but heard nothing.

"Who commands here?" A voice called softly.

Sliding back inside the trench Izuru raised a hand in greeting to a warrior in the battledress of the Dire Avenger caste who stood at the head of a command group, confident and unconcerned of the vanished enemy.

"I do," Izuru replied.

Planting a foot on the brim of the trench, the Dire Avenger placed a hand on his hip and stared down at her. Even with his features hidden behind his war mask the warrior's contempt was evident.

"Why do you hide down there, ranger?"

"Will not you seek cover, autarch?" Izuru asked. "The trench is spacious enough to accommodate your command group."

"I am concerned. You will not be able to kill many humans lying down there, ranger. Remove yourself and your sharpshooters from this human cesspit and stand tall when you speak to me."

Affronted at the overt condescension Izuru began to reply with equal contempt but caught herself when Korr appeared in the Avengers' midst.

"Salutations, autarch, I am Korr Nightspear. You have the honour of fighting alongside the rangers of the Nightspear's Own; I am their commander. Lady Izuru Numerial – captain too I might add – leads us."

"Not any more, Lieutenant, the warriors of Ulthwé have arrived and will advance to meet the enemy in glorious combat, we do not have any need of your, uh, lurkers."

Hoisting herself over the ripped up hardbags Izuru met the Dire Avenger face to face. He was clad in dark blue body armour and wore a similarly coloured mask beneath a bone-white helmet that was tipped with a red crest. A grey sash was tied around his waist, decorated with black runes and icons dedicated to Asurmen; the Dire Avenger's Phoenix Lord.

"This honoured being is Rokar Stormshrine, lord of Ulthwé's Dire Avenger caste. I command here."

Korr sensed the growing enmity between Rokar, who commanded a company of little more than militia, and Izuru whose expression was darkening and was a beat away from delivering a highly insolent reply. Stepping in quickly Korr said, "Of course, Lord Stormshrine, there is no doubt that you command here. We are simple skirmishers, straight-up combat is not our doctrine, it is our task to seek out and harass the enemy so that your warriors are able to suppress and destroy them in the name of your Phoenix Lord."

Turning to his aides, Rokar issued commands for the Avengers to spread out and await his signal. After he had concluded business with his own troop commanders only then did he return his attention to Korr and Izuru. "Simple skirmishers I might have use of. Lieutenant, you and your ranger will have point. Seek knowledge of the enemy's whereabouts and report back to me. Do _not_ engage them without my blessing."

Swirling his cloak around him in a gratuitous gesture of superiority, Rokar swept away followed by his lackeys and a banner bearer, still displaying near-suicidal disdain for the enemy.

"Down." Izuru tugged Korr's arm and dropped back into the trench.

"You would be wise not to antagonise Autarch Stormshrine, Captain," Korr hissed, fixing her with an intense stare.

Pulling her autogun close Izuru clenched her free hand to quell her rising anger and retorted, "I command here, that was what he said. This officer of _militia_ believes he has authority over me! I have the blessing and authority of Eldrad Ulthran, does he not know that?"

"Please, Captain, exercise caution around the autarch, he is extremely well connected and has many allies on the Aeldari Council…"

"Aeldari, is that what they are calling this mismatched congregation between the Craftworlds, the Druchii, and the Harlequins?"

"Let the autarch have his way—"

"That bastard cannot be allowed to heave his arrogant bulk over us, high political standing should not be a factor of command in the field!"

"I wholeheartedly agree," Korr nodded. "But we must follow orders – and be grateful that we have received reinforcements. This expedition would have become folly without the Dire Avengers' assistance. Look how thin our numbers are on the ground. A handful of rangers and Fire Dragons would have been swept aside like a wave over a wall of sand."

Fuming Izuru pulled out her magazine and tapped it against a half-buried helmet belonging to a dead human, muttering, "Folly…"

"You should re-equip yourself with a Long Rifle, Captain," Korr advised, checking over his Splinter Carbine. "There are many lying on the ground from last day."

"There will be many more Shuriken Rifles out there today, Lieutenant." Izuru glanced at him and set her safety. "Let us brief our brothers and sisters."

"What of the Fire Dragons? They are without a commander…"

"Have them lend their ears to our briefing then."

A gathering of rangers and specialists was held inside the trench. It was Izuru's express wish for the rangers to strike out ahead of the main force which would advance in two columns with heavy flank security and a mobile reserve to counter any attempted envelopment. Advancing on a broad front with little depth would put the entire force in danger of being drawn into combat, and with all elements committed there would be no reserve to reinforce any units weakened during the initial exchange of fire and later on assist in withdrawal if the situation deteriorated. There was a unanimous agreement that the double column was the best choice. Even Arax Blackshard, slightly numbed by the previous days' action cast his vote for it. He and the Dark Reapers had privately made their peace with the Fire Dragons in a surprisingly humble manner the previous night.

"The sons of Fuegan do not grieve the way others do," Varro had answered when conversing with one of the Skulls. "We make our peace and carry on."

A solid plan was formed. Izuru and Korr, though appearing confident in the face of the others, both had doubts on whether the arrogant autarch would see it as they did. "And if he does not?" Korr whispered to Izuru as they approached the Dire Avengers.

"Then may Feugen and Maugan Ra have mercy on our people."

"And us? Rangers do not have a Phoenix Lord."

"I shall pray to Asuryan. I do not mind who you pay your respects to."

Rokar Stormshrine strutted about in the midst of his bodyguard, now bare-headed, with his golden hair flying. He was the very epitome of Eldar, Izuru thought, so very up his own arse on all matters that it was a struggle not to laugh at the gaudily-dressed being in spotless armour and clean blade. Korr looked like an outcast in his blackened cameleoline and grubby appearance. Izuru herself was little better, her cameleoline cape she had discarded after it was half-incinerated by Varro's flamer. In its absence she now felt quite naked, though the physical loss mellowed in comparison to the sentiment that weighed heavy on her heart. That item had been gifted to her on her ascension to a full-fledged ranger, and although it had journeyed with her for years it was now burnt away and lay forgotten in the waste.

"Aha, the lurkers," Rokar smirked. The action rubbed Izuru the wrong way, nearly making her lash out verbally in the face of the autarch; it was so difficult not to in that beautiful, clean, smug face. "Present yourselves and pay heed to my battle plan."

Korr, about to explain the already-agreed plan to him, closed his mouth and glanced sideways at Izuru.

"Listen well for I will not say this again."

The moment Rokar began speaking Izuru heard the dreaded words 'broad front' and 'wedge formation'. It was plainly obvious the autarch wanted to spread his force out to its widest and advance into the face of the enemy tall and proud with banner flying; just like in the stories.

"With the utmost respect, autarch…" Izuru began only to be cut off by Rokar immediately.

"Are you at liberty to speak your own mind, ranger?" Rokar, white-faced, cried. "You are not in the presence of your lurker friends now but real warriors!"

"A double column would serve us better than a broad front, my lord," Korr interjected before things could heat up further. "We would do well with strongly guarded flanks and a reserve platoon to insert themselves where necessary—"

"And you…" Rokar's voice became deadly. "I believed you would have more sense than _her,_ but no. To spit in the face of higher authority is to incite death. On my return to the fleet I will have you brought up before the war council where you will be tried and put to death for insubordination. Now, execute your orders. We advance on a broad front."

The advantage of a pre-dawn attack had been lost with Rokar's arrival and subsequent time-wasting. As if the enemy would be gracious enough to wait for him Izuru thought scornfully. Across from her Korr lay pressed against the earth with his eyes half closed, listening.

"Why do we tarry here?" Leyko whispered impatiently from a few spaces down the trench, turning several heads his way.

"Hush, patience. The autarch will give the order presently," Izuru replied calmly. "Lieutenant?"

Korr opened his eyes and looked at her.

"What can your ears discern?"

A subtle, near-undetectable shake of his head confirmed there was nothing out there. Izuru replied by raising her eyebrows a hair's breadth; tell me more. Korr was silent for a while then, just when Izuru looked away, his eyes snapped open.

" _Blood_ ," he whispered. There was nothing irregular about the word only that it was spoken in Gothic.

"Blood?" Izuru replied in her own tongue and shifted closer to Korr, whose mouth had opened just a fraction, betraying his concern.

"Blood?" A Pathfinder to Izuru's immediate right had heard the spoken word. Curious, he climbed up to the rounded parapet and peered over, seeking out what Korr thought he had heard.

A loud _ping_ of a bullet impacting the Pathfinder's helmet broke the dead silence. Toppling violently back, blood spurting from his shattered mask, the Pathfinder fell into the trench.

 _Blood!_

A distant chant grew in volume, hundreds of voices crying in unison.

 _Blood!_

There was a rumble. The sound of many pairs of booted came feet from under the earth.

 _Blood!_

Through the morning mist,muddled, man-sized shapes sprang from holes in the ground carrying long spears – lasguns tipped with serrated bayonets; a dancing forest of blades bobbing up and down.

 _BLOOD!_

Masses of Chaos soldiers screaming their lungs out flooded across the ridge, a khaki and grey wave rolling in the Eldar's direction. Leyko gave a little 'oh' of surprise and fumbled with his Long Rifle as many others were doing. The sheer weight of the enemy's numbers and the suddenness of their appearance made some of the battleweary Pathfinders, who had not imagined they would be counterattacked this soon, freeze in place. Its magnitude was alarming. Scarcely twenty yards away Chaos infantry streamed upwards from cracks and fissures; they were spouting from the very earth it seemed.

"Khaela Mensha…" Izuru gasped, rising up beside Korr and aiming at the oncoming wave. The final word – Khaine – was lost to the noise as rifles were brought hurriedly to bear and triggers worked frantically. Already enemy weapons teams were in position amidst rocks and broken trees and were laying their stubber and bolter fire into the startled Eldar who responded with scattered, half-aimed las fire that did little to deter the mass bayonet charge.

Without waiting for an order the few Pathfinders and Avengers in front of the trench and bunkers hastily abandoned their holes and began to displace, sensing they would be overrun in short order. Those too slow to vacate to a safer position were caught by the intense crossfire and left behind, wounded and helpless. Their pleas for help were lost in the storm of battle that had swept across the ridge with lighting speed.

"We are overrun!" Korr snapped at Izuru beside him.

Tapping a new magazine Izuru pushed it into her rifle and worked the bolt, at the same time casting a quick glance over her shoulder at Rokar. Perched on a taller mound, some way behind the frontline, Rokar was calmly sniping enemy soldiers. Each shot found its mark, some were even passing through the body cleanly and hitting more behind. It had little effect though as with every human fallen, three or four more were immediately covering the ground that those cut down had failed to gain. Then it dawned on the autarch that even his marksmanship was not going to check the rush, so he turned and fled.

Incensed at the apparent cowardice Izuru shrieked a long string of choice curse-words, silent in the noise that drowned everything out, and continued firing with Korr until her rifle emptied again.

"WE ARE OVERRUN!" Korr repeated inbetween rapid bursts from his Splinter Carbine. The enemy, despite incurring heavy losses, had closed to ten yards from the trench.

"BREAK CONTACT! RETREAT!" Izuru conceded and signalled to the surviving Pathfinders who needed little encouragement to fall back. "Go!" She grabbed Leyko by his shoulder and thrust him out of the trench. "I will cover you from this position!"

The wounded Pathfinders and Avengers, unable to pull themselves to safety, were bayonetted and stabbed by Chaos covered in blood and muck who, like a herd of stampeding animals, then swarmed over the trench; recapturing the ground Izuru had been occupying scant seconds before.

An unlucky Pathfinder, bravely coming about to fight a rearguard action, brought his Long Rifle to bear only for a charging human, who ignored him entirely, to knock the long barrel aside as he ran past. The now-unarmed Pathfinder was quickly bayonetted in the gut by another and unceremoniously kicked aside.

The wave was overtaking stragglers now. Dire Avengers, with no retreat order from their commander, fought on in groups but were quickly enveloped and bayonetted or cut to pieces by the stubber and bolter teams which were advancing on the Chaos' flanks.

"Captain, get in here!" Korr had rallied a handful of Pathfinders and was now holding up in a shallow string of shell-holes. With him were Fire Dragons and those of Rokar's warriors that had fallen back with them. Izuru leapt down beside Korr and whipped around, emptying her magazine into the enemy's ranks. But still they were undeterred; it made her wonder briefly what drove those men into such a murderous frenzy.

"Rangers!" Rokar suddenly appeared. "Ordnance will be delivered presently. Stand your ground and prepare to advance on the enemy!"

"The enemy employed tunnels to close the distance with us. Their numbers are too great!" Izuru, seeing the autarch, shouted angrily at him.

"I concur," Korr added, killing two Chaos that were close enough to lunge at him with knives. "We must retreat now!"

"Where? Ordnance where?" Izuru, flinging her autogun aside, its last magazine spent, snatched up a Triplex Lasgun and continued to shoot until it died a few shots later.

"Harvester!" Korr shouted to Arax Blackshard. His reply came without delay to Korr's alarm.

"Where is the aiming point?" Izuru, without a weapon, ripped the Moses from her belt and fired twice, point-blank, at a human with no body armour and only soft cover. "Our position is untenable!" She shoved the body away and pulled a Lecta carbine from underneath it.

Korr stabbed a finger at precisely where they were entrenched and cried, "HERE!"

Realising that the Dark Reapers' ordnance would shortly be landing on their heads Izuru rose and bellowed to the defenders, "FALL BACK!"

The order was understood and heeded by even the Dire Avengers who by now worked out that they would be slaughtered if they tried to hold their ground, or as their commander would put it: 'die honourably'. No sooner had the words left Izuru's mouth when Chaos mortars began to explode and stamp across the ridge towards them, indiscriminately killing their own men along with the enemy.

Izuru made sure she was the last to follow. Korr too held on despite her shouting at him many times to run. Both Lecta and Splinter Carbine cut down Chaos in droves though it still did nothing to slow the unstoppable advance of the whooping, cheering mob.

"IZURU, COME ON!" Korr had to drag her away as Chaos were now bypassing them on their exposed flanks seeing as they could not defeat them head on. Both rangers then split, though not intentionally. The confusion of battle saw Izuru alone with nobody at her side. Shouts came from behind her as her allies retreated, everything in front was enemy.

The high-pitched whistle of an incoming mortar shell peaked above the din just enough for her to vaguely register it on the edge of her mind. If she could hear it then it was not about to drop in her head, but somewhere nearby therefore it was irrelevant to her at that moment. Just how wrong about it Izuru discovered was when something very sharp and very thin pierced her right shoulder above the shoulderblade making her drop to one knee.

A pair of bayonet-wielding Chaos, grinning behind strange masks made of a thin yellowish material, scuttled from a hollow in the ground and made for her. Before they could lunge Izuru raised her Lecta and ended them in two short bursts. Aiming through the sights she saw the shells stream from the weapon and felt the kickback but heard nothing; she was deaf. More Chaos, attracted by the one Stickie that was not scrambling over himself to run, bore down on her, leaping across holes strewn with corpses and spent shells.

From her right Izuru saw fire, then a great spear of flame cut across directly in front of her engulfing any nearby Chaos. Varro, the white teeth on his flamers' nozzle blackened by the heat, stood on a rise pouring thick gouts of fire onto the enemy below.

Her Lecta still shouldered, Izuru stared, transfixed, at the dancing enemy who were howling in agony. The flames were reflected in her eyes, scorching her soul in a moment of horror. As the bodies fell lifeless Izuru caught her breath when she saw a weapons team, untouched by the flames, bring their weapon to bear on Varro.

"VARRO!" She cried. In her deafened state her voice did not carry far enough to reach his ears. Nevertheless Varro had seen the gunner slowly traverse his bipod-mounted .30 calibre stubber in his direction. In desperation – the weapon was out of range of his flamer – Varro tried to make a wall of fire between him and use it as a smokescreen to retreat under. Obstinately his flamer then ran empty, the jet of burning fuel faltering and dropping off to nothing. Instead of trying to divest himself of the heavy tanks Varro turned and tried to run.

"DROP IT!" Izuru screamed.

The stubber spoke its loud, rattling piece and produced lethal, bright green tracers that pierced Varro's fuel tank from behind. Expecting Varro to go up in flames, Izuru nearly fled but stopped herself. All the bullets had done was penetrate the casing and cause a massive loss in pressure, bowling Varro forwards onto his face. The inert gases were now streaming from the many bullet holes, Varro was unharmed.

Fearing a second burst would end them both, Izuru skidded to a halt beside Varro and emptied the Lecta's magazine at the two man stubber team. "Hurry!" She snapped, for the weapon, in the midst of a barrel change, had fallen silent.

"I bit my tongue," Varro replied, his voice muffled behind his mask.

"Seek cover!" Izuru pushed the ruptured tanks away with a boot and took off after Varro, feeling rounds kicking up the dirt by her feet.

Elsewhere Leyko, his Long Rifle rendered inoperable by shrapnel, dived into a hollow behind a fallen tree trunk and slid down the slope, coming to rest beside a wounded Pathfinder who had hold of a Shuriken Carbine in one hand.

"Brother, I am here." Leyko saw the Pathfinder's other arm had had its sleeve burnt away and the flesh split from the shoulder all the way down to the hand; in some place bones and nerves were exposed. "Let me—"

About to give his brother his only set of painkillers, Leyko felt the burnt trunk explode above his head showering him with tiny splinters. Yelping in fright Leyko wrenched the Splinter Carbine from the others' grasp and fired wildly up at a Gothic-spitting Chaos soldier. Falling back dead, his place was taken by another who Leyko shot immediately after. This one fell face-first into the hole and came to rest by Leyko's feet. Staring at the dead body for a second, dazed by the sudden violence, Leyko breathed heavily for a moment before returning to his wounded brother.

"Come, brother I will carry you," Leyko gasped, hauling his comrades' body up and onto his shoulders. "Let us retire to a fairer place, with warm skies and green grass."

"Put me down!" The Pathfinder moaned, grunting in pain at every little jolt. "Save yourself!"

"I will not leave you!" Leyko swore, and he meant it, for even a promise to a complete stranger whom young Leyko had never spoken to before must be honoured.

Buildings were being hurled through the air, great juggernauts without volume or mass but the noise to match exploded in terrific fashion across the ridge. The enemy's field artillery batteries were now being brought to bear. Izuru sussed the falling rounds were straight-trajectory by the sounds alone. The earth-shaking detonation came first, then the scream of the shell travelling through the air, and finally the faraway crump of the guns. It was not a pleasant feeling coming under rifle, mortar, and artillery fire all at once. The ferocity of the combined weapons was enough to make some throw down their weapons and curl up into a ball with their hands clamped over their ears and their heads raised off the ground to stave off the painful vibrations each explosion produced.

Pierced in both legs by shrapnel, his mask cracked in many places, Rokar Stormshrine reluctantly gave up ground and followed hastily in his warriors' wake. To his relief his banner still stood, even if its bearer was fleeing from the Chaos' counterattack as quickly as his legs could carry him.

Wheeling around to face the humans who were braying in their foul, common tongue, Rokar raised his Shuriken Pistol – his empty carbine he had tossed aside when reloading was not convenient – and fired. So tightly clustered were the enemy there was no need to aim. Wearing a vile grimace Rokar hammered his firing stud as fast the weapon allowed, downing a human with every shuriken fired. Many of the razor-sharp disks scythed through the unarmoured bodies to lodge in others behind. The hopelessness of Rokar's desperate, rage-induced stand did not become apparent to him until he was overtaken by humans on both flanks and surrounded. A pair of hands grabbed him even as stuck his barrel in faces as they flew by and blew them into glistening, bloody pieces. The same hands dragged him down to his knees forcing him to drop his pistol. A wounded, snarling human, drenched in blood and half-incinerated by a Fire Dragon had a grenade clenched tightly in his fist, the same fist that was trying to wrap around Rokar's neck. Wide-eyed, Rokar growled at the human, his face inches from the others', spraying spittle in his face. In response the human screamed at Rokar even as the grenade held between them burned its length of fuse, making Rokar scream back with equal vehemence. The two bitter roars of hatred were ended when the trapped grenade went off in a cloud of red blood and grey dust, sending both human and Eldar flying in opposite directions. Both were dead before they hit the ground.

Pursued relentlessly Izuru found herself with Korr, Varro, and four other Pathfinders in a half-dug trench that was more a dip in the ground but bordered by a low wall of hardbags. Catching her breath Izuru knocked into an open container without meaning to, making it topple and spill its contents at her feet. Even as Korr, Varro, and the Pathfinders mounted a final holding effort to delay the enemy Izuru hesitated when she noticed what the containers held: mortar shells. Picking up a single dirty yellow bomb Izuru examined it and, in a spur of the moment idea, pulled the thin safety pin from around the black warhead and shouted at Korr to shoot the shells in mid-air. Incredulous, Korr thought her mad all for a single second; then it became clear as to her insane idea. Drawing back her arm Izuru threw the shell up into the air. It made a little whistle on its short journey downwards into the swarming ranks of the Chaos infantry. Korr nailed it, and the 2-inch bomb exploded five feet in the air, devastating the closest groups and giving the enemy pause. Passing the shells out to Korr and Varro, Izuru did not bother to try and shoot the little objects out of the air on her next throw. A hard surface was required to arm the fuse which would detonate on contact if it landed on its nose. The recoilless rifle, abandoned and rendered inoperable, was lying on its side presenting the perfect arming point. Banging the round on the rusted barrel Izuru threw it overarm and ducked back behind the ledge as several more explosions pelted dirt in her face. Korr and Varro, understanding her method, were copying her and dumping shell after shell in the enemy's face; the other Pathfinders were still trying to shoot them out of the air. Then when it seemed the Chaos' attack was turned, the supply of 2-inch ran out, leaving the Eldar with only their small arms once more.

"To the portal! Flee!" Korr exhorted, grabbing Pathfinder and Fire Dragon alike and shoving them out of the trench during the lull.

Still clutching two unprimed shells Izuru caught sight of the enemy's renewed strength. Their numbers had more than doubled even after the improvised grenades had beaten them back temporarily; there was no stopping them. Drawing breath into her heaving lungs Izuru screamed in equal fear and fury at the remaining Pathfinders and Avengers. "MOVE! MOVE!"

Chaos spilled over the hardbags, their bloodied bayonets glinting in the newly-risen sunlight, nearly catching Izuru who had stayed briefly. Running flat-out Izuru caught up with Korr in a heartbeat and spun, simultaneously spraying her Lecta at her pursuers. Korr's Splinter Carbine added to the fighting retreat until it emptied and regurgitated its spent cartridge. At the same time Izuru's weapon ran dry and clicked impotently. Both Izuru and Korr were down to sidearms which many other Eldar now fired behind them at the baying, khaki beast that would not die. Such futility rewarded many with a noisy, painful death as the stubber and bolter teams took up position once more on the Chaos' flanks and were employed to great effect. The withering shower of green light, streaking from many directions, cut down Pathfinder, Fire Dragon, and Dire Avenger mercilessly. Falling mortars, light and medium calibre, vaporised beings completely with nothing left but puffs of red and broken pieces of wraithbone.

Through a wall of black smoke Korr ran. In the confusion he had lost Izuru again. Even with nought but a lasblaster the Pathfinder was determined to fight every step of the way. Too many of his brothers and sisters were lying dead or dying amongst the enemy; Korr would not leave without showing his teeth. Digging his heels into the dirt Korr checked his flight and raised his lasblaster, mindless of the carnage around him and only wanting to kill more humans. A gust of wind blew aside the torrid smoke revealing a stubber team, the gunner of which was sweeping his weapon side to side in a gentle arc. His practised hands sighted the weapon on Korr and let loose a burst.

A flurry of red-hot hammer blows pounded on Korr's chestplate caving it inwards from the multiple impacts of the heavy rifle rounds. Gasping, Korr was overcome with dizziness and tottered backwards a pace before falling against a rocky bluff and sliding down it, collapsing on the ground still gripping his lasblaster tightly. High on the adrenaline and enraged at having been shot by humans, great clods of spittle flew from Korr's mouth. A glint of a muzzle out of the corner of his eye warned him of the approaching Chaos. Korr's last act before his body began to drain of its energy was to extend his right arm to its fullest length and fire his sidearm twice. The second bolt hit the human in the throat, melting his flesh inwards and setting it on fire from the heat. It was also Korr's last shot for his lasblaster as the chamber vented gas and expended its flat cell with a loud hiss.

"Korr!" Izuru was there kneeling beside him.

"Your shoulder…" Korr, unconcerned about his own wounds, pointed weakly at the long splinter protruding from Izuru's shoulder.

"Stay your tongue, brother," Izuru, her eyes desperate and pleading, pressed a hand to his blood-flecked cheek. "And stay with me."

Grunting loudly from Korr's weight Izuru took him over her shoulders and struggled after her companions. Driven by the desire to save Korr Izuru muttered feverishly to him even as explosions went off around her, scorching her battledress with flame and ash. She said over and over again: "I will not let you die. I order you not to die."

Korr was silent. His voice carried away by the all-encompassing sounds of battle, but even then Izuru could feel his life force draining. Through her psyker connection she experienced the body's faculties slowly shutting down and the heart beating slower and slower.

"Not long now, brother, the portal is near," Izuru squeezed Korr's limp hand encouragingly.

The Dark Reaper's barrage, a welcome sight, but far too late to turn the battle, soared overhead to land on the enemy's heads.

The ground expedition would be officially declared a failure, and in the absence of Autarch Stormshrine Izuru would be held accountable, after all the Aeldari Council would need a scapegoat to put the blame on. Who better than an outcast ranger with nothing to her name? Izuru imagined the hearing and the strange unity of the craftworlders, the Druchii, and the Harlequins coming together to pass judgement on her. Having all three in a chamber together – working together even – was, put frankly, straight from a childrens' rhyme. The words of the rhyme Izuru found was all she could think about at that moment and mere feet from death. _Am I mad?_ She asked herself.

Leyko's suddenly ran up dropping her, boots first, back onto Cadia. "Captain!" His mood was not a positive one, something was wrong.

"The portal, Leyko!" Izuru shouted indignantly.

"I am sorry," Leyko stammered. "It is gone."

Where the faint swirl of the immaterium led into the tunnel back to the Aeldari fleet should have been there was nothing. The tall ring was dead.

"Asuryan deliver us," Izuru fixed her numb gaze on the pitifully small number that had made it to the portal. There were less than thirty-two warriors remaining, over half were the Skulls, the rest: Pathfinders, a few Dragons, and the rest Avengers.

"Tell us what to do, Captain," Leyko said, wiping his eyes.

"Harvester?" Izuru called.

Arax Blackshard had fallen. He had not seen or heard the shell. It landed directly on his head and obliterated him from existence; not even a scrap of cloth or armour remained. With the castes' leadership wiped out, Izuru realised every pair of eyes, all filled with trauma, anguish, pain, or a subdued rage were looking at her to provide salvation. Choosing to forgo her duty to them – well aware how foolish it was – Izuru laid Korr's body on the ground and looked down at it. Korr had a relaxed, almost dreamy look on his dirt-encrusted face. His eyes were the giveaway, they would not focus. The pupils had dilated to their widest which Izuru knew only occurred if the being was regarding something they cared about, or if the body was letting go. There was no argument; it was the latter.

Closing Korr's eyes Izuru rose, calmly picked up a Long Rifle and declared, "We are not retreating."

Stunned faces watched her.

"We are advancing."

"Where?" Varro, glancing fearfully about, asked.

"There," Izuru jabbed the barrel of her rifle at the far end of the ridge, behind the dead portal.

"The cliff is near sheer. We will lose our lives!" One of the Skulls cried.

"We are advancing – DOWN THERE!" Izuru bellowed. "Warriors, prepare for descent!"

Leaving a rearguard, Izuru and the five Pathfinders formed chains with their toggle ropes. Each Ranger carried a length of tightly-coiled rope thirty feet long that could be linked with others to increase the length. Working hurriedly the Pathfinders hammered three wraithbone pegs into the hard ground with rifle butts and cast the ropes over the precipice. Well accustomed to descending sheer inclines, the Pathfinders then shimmied down the ropes with ease, leaping back from the uneven cliff face with agile grace.

The evacuation proceeded smoothly and without hitch. Once more Izuru made sure she was the last to leave, untying the two other ropes and throwing them down with the pegs. Nothing could be done about it but the third, she would have to leave else it would be impossible to follow; even a sixty foot drop was too far for her leap safely. _Goodbye, Korr Nightspear,_ Izuru thought sadly, Korr's Waystone lying in palm. _You were the best there was_. _Rest now, for your journey is at an end._ Her mask of stoicism firmly in place, Izuru gripped the rope and lowered herself from the Valesian Ridge to where her comrades waited below.

* * *

 **Kraf Airbase, Cadia Secundus, 07:56**

Raindrops fell from above, splashing irritatingly on the cage's occupants who had neither walls nor roof, just a tall wire fence topped with spikes to shield them from the elements. The few hundred survivors of Nemesis Tessera had been placed in a prison cage immediately after their arrival. In the shadow of the great walls of the Kasr they watched heavy quantities of air traffic flying overhead and, from afar, preparations for total war unfold.

Freezing cold, I huddled close together with Aimo, Kat, and the rest. A day had passed since our incarceration by the Cadians, during that time we had been offered no food, water, fresh clothes, or medical treatment. The lack of the last element took a toll on us as a small number of sick men suffering from exposure or other illnesses carried with them from Nemtess passed away inside the cage. The Guards outside, Cadians in their customary bright khaki and green plate armour, paid no attention to the pleas for aid, their responses came in the form of jabs through the wire with bayonetted M-36s.

It was the previous afternoon during a break in the rain when Major Lomas ordered me personally to come over to where Brigadier Vorbeck and the two colonels, Creel and Zandyke were sitting. Dreading a dressing-down by either them or the sergeant major I was surprised by the gentle tone in the latter's voice. "Down here, Corporal. Captain Glowna wants to speak to you."

"Sergeant Major?" I got down on my knees and saw a deathly-white hand extend itself to me. Lying flat on his back, Pace Glowna's eyelids flickered. As pale as his hands, Glowna's face cracked a smile as his eyes recognised me. "Good afternoon, Corporal," he murmured.

"Afternoon, sir."

"I would address you properly but my illness prevents me, I hope you will understand…"

"I understand, sir."

"No, you must understand what I am about to say. Now lend me an ear for I cannot rise," he beckoned me to lean forwards. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

"This is an order from Lieutenant Colonel Gausser. He gave it to me, and now I am giving it to you."

I listened. Pace Glowna died moments after he finished speaking.

"What did he say to you, Corporal?" Colonel Creel asked.

Gazing blankly into space I replied woodenly, "Captain Glowna said that he was glad he could die for the Emperor, sir."

"Oh, well, good," Creel glanced at Zandyke then at Vorbeck.

"And with him the 228th dies," Vorbeck said solemnly, reaching down and closing Glowna's eyes. "Feast with the Emperor, son. You served him admirably."

Isolating myself later I mulled over Glowna's words: _better men_. I could not understand why adjutant had chosen me. I was not an officer, not a gentleman. To them I was little more than scum, and Glowna had known that. No amount of favouritism would make change my views on officers in general; they were made from the same material as Kaukasios was. Only a tiny majority, they were the Doron's, the Meinerz's, and now the Glowna's. Good men who would be forever in the shadow of the Kaukasios's simply because they cared about other people's lives, not their social and political influence.

Martti Sinric, Leo Wind, Pace Glowna, I mentally ticked off in my mind as rain splashed on my collar. Friends, those I respected, gone. I imagined Cadia, and the gathering stormclouds above it would see us all dead with not even little Larn clawing his way from the ashes this time.

Joseph Herle, contrary to the general discontent at being treated so poorly by allies, had spent the entire day taking stories and compiling notes from various officers and NCOS from Nerian 228th Infantry Regiment, Cullen Fusiliers, Atreides Cavalry, 17/21st Lancers, and numerous odds and sods; it was quite a list. The stories were fascinating and would certainly make for an excellent article in the papers. One in particular stood out, but it did not come from the person in question rather from another's mouth.

"Hey, what's your name, soldier?" Herle asked a thin-faced and bony Nerian private.

"Who's asking?" The soldier sneered.

"Oh, Joe Herle, Cadian Enquirer," Herle squatted in front of the soldier and stuck out a hand. "Anything to add to my article?"

"Article?" The private's nose wrinkled in disdain.

"The Miracle of Nemtess!" Herle mimed opening a newspaper grandly. "Eyewitness accounts of a remarkable fighting retreat!"

"Hunh," he grunted. "Oi, I've got somethin', not from me mind you…"

"Yeah, who?" Herle flipped open a fresh page on his notepad and stood ready with a pencil.

"Let's go ask him. Aimo Garst by the way."

"Who is this then?" Herle stepped carefully over legs and arms, following in Aimo's wake.

"Here he is, wondered where you'd got to, mate," Aimo got down on his knees beside a small man who was sitting with his back to the wire. "Ah, he's asleep."

"What's his name?"

"Oh uh, Larn—"

Half-asleep I heard the name spoken which seemed to act like a trigger. Lying horizontal I felt the cold factory floor underneath me and the itchy blanket covering my body. Martti's face floated above. Forcing a smile I said, " _you won't hear another word out of me,"_

" _Arvin James Larn_ ," the words came from another's mouth. Martti and the factory faded away. Rain and the open skies replaced them.

"Martti," I muttered.

"He says his name is Martti." A stranger said from above.

"Oh no, that's just… sorry, Larn's been through a lot. We all have."

"Who're you?" I opened one eye and squinted up at what looked like a walking camera shop.

"Joseph Herle, Cadian Enquirer… I'm with Photo," Herle added. "Hello."

"Press, mate," Aimo said.

"Just looking for some stories, anything you wanted to add?"

"Nah, nothin' interesting to say." I drew my knees up and hid my face behind them.

"Aw, don't be shy. Your story's better than anyone else' round here," Aimo said encouragingly. "S'gotta have some mention."

"Nah, go away."

"Come on now, you can't hide behind your knees forever, mate."

"Don't ye want to forget Nemtess, uh? S'what I want," I grunted. "Start a new page."

"Oi, don't listen," Aimo caught Herle by the shoulder when he moved away. "Larn's a bloody hero, something us lot need right now, 'specially since all we've been doing's retreating."

"Alright, get him to look me up sometime, maybe in more favourable conditions."

"Yeah, just remember that name."

I waited for the Press to scuttle away before rounding on Aimo. "Don't put the thing out to the papers, Aimo."

"Look…" Aimo knelt beside me. "You're a hero, pal. I know, I was there—"

"You weren't there, no-one was," I said morosely. "But it ain't that."

"Eh, what then?"

"Them Stickies. Without them we were going in the bag, a prison cage just like this one. What's it gonna look like to the brass, uh? They're gonna think us traitors for throwin' our lot in with the Stickies."

"You're worried 'bout you and that Stickie?"

"I'm worried 'bout you lot, the section, gotta keep you all safe."

"Yeah, but maybe it's not the Perfs we've gotta worry about now…" Aimo glanced at the sentries posted outside the wire. "What d'you reckon?"

"Our own people?"

"Yeah…"

The rain let up as the morning dragged on. Near noon, or near about it, a cry went up prompting a mass congregation on the western side of the wire. "Lumpy Jumpers!"

Female personnel, alien beings with long hair and breasts were seen in the distance behind their own fence, not that they were imprisoned themselves they were simply walking behind it. Just that single long-distance view was enough to make many go mad. Hoots, catcalls, whistles, just general exclamations of joy raised the non-existent roof of the prison cage. Even the sentries outside, who otherwise would've begun jabbing with their bayonets, were distracted.

"I can see a blonde one!"

"Their uniforms are tight!"

"They've got long hair!"

"How tight are they between the legs?"

"What's a Lumpy jumper?"

A head shorter than anyone else I was trapped at the back with Aimo and Ral. "Women?"

"Hmm, seems so," Ral shrugged.

"Honestly I feel sorry for 'em," Aimo laughed. "Be glad for fences this high, else the Cadians would have a stampede on their hands. A mob of sex-starved grunts is – well I wouldn't want to be in their way."

"Honestly, anything with a cunt and that's me, I'm in there," Kat waved his hands madly. "Don't try and stop me."

"You'd be NJP'd before your pants were down." The Sergeant Major, appearing out of nowhere, leered at him. "Cadian women have the driest cunts in the entire sector. They are bred for war – fact, seven out of ten Cadians are in boots either regular or reserve, and _every_ Cadian knows how to field strip an M36 before he or she can read. By ten they are trained soldiers, fourteen in the Whiteshield Corps, Nineteen will see them officially sworn in as Cadian Shock Troopers, the finest soldiers in the galaxy bar the men of Nereus. _But_ , disrespect Cadian women and you disrespect them all, you also disrespect _me_. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sergeant Major," we echoed.

Talk of the three women went on into the night well past the point of the subject being interesting. Several times a solitary Nerian was discovered furiously beating his organ out, provoking much laughter. Coldly derisive of the excitement flying around the cage I sat back against the wire and tried to sleep. Thoughts of future interrogation prowled the corners of my mind. I had been in the room with the table and two chairs before and did not like it. First after the massacre in the Slums on Grendel, then before I was disavowed by the Guard and handed over to the planet's government for murder. I could only imagine what nasty fate awaited us in the cells.

A gentle poke in my shoulder made me twist around sharply and reach through the wire to claw at whoever was doing it. The thought of action strangely had not come at all; I was acting on reflex alone.

"Oh sorry, fella, didn't mean to alarm you!" A friendly voice hissed from the darkness.

"You Cadian?" I retracted my arm quickly, realising what I was doing.

"I'm the pilot, Howling 119th." The man came forwards so his face was inches from the wire. "Hugh Waldo, I'm one of Slick pilots who lifted you out of Primus."

"Ta," I stuck my hand through the wire and clasped his. "Ta, mate, we was all dead if it weren't for you."

"Just doing our jobs, you call, we haul," Waldo, smiling warmly clasped his other hand over mine.

"James, who's that?" Aimo was beside me and peering through the wire. Ral, Cyrano and Kat were there too.

"Hi fellas, I'm Hugh Waldo, 119th Air Assault Division."

Handshakes were exchanged then Waldo was back to me. "Careful, there's guards about somewhere," I warned.

"Five sentries, fifteen minute intervals, they come round like clockwork, last one was four minutes ago. If I know the Cadians, which I do, then they stick to their timetables like nothing else matters; which it doesn't."

"Hey, so what's this dig about then, why we locked up like this?" I said. Around me the others had clustered around as close as they could get and were listening hard.

"It's standard procedure. You landed in enemy territory. We didn't know who you were at first."

"That aquila…" Kat murmured.

"Yeah, exactly that," Waldo stabbed a finger in elation. "You get a few days here max, then it's the cells in Green Slime HQ. They'll debrief you, interrogate you, whatever. If they like your stories then…"

"Then what?" I leant closer.

"I don't know I'm not Green Slime."

"How does a pilot know so much about procedure for rescued soldiers?" Cyrano lifted a strand of wire and scrutinised the pilot. "You are too friendly."

"I flew to you without authorisation. I could be grounded permanently and lose my right to fly. Trust me, it was the right thing to do," Waldo said sincerely. "I'm just glad you fellas got out okay."

"Not all of us did," I muttered.

"Oi, pilot, we need food, water, and medical supplies, we've had men dying in here," Ral pleaded. "This – keeping us locked up – it's inhumane and against the laws of war."

"Welcome to Cadia," Waldo shook his head. "There's things a whole lot bigger than you going on out there now."

"Yeah, it's a mess up in space," I sniffed and scratched my head.

"Right now though…" Waldo lifted his head up and looked over at pairs of subdued headlamps that were travelling in the direction of the gate. "…you have bigger problems to contend with; they're here." Checking his chrono he remarked, "eleven minutes past midnight, they're early."

"Oi help us with this wire," Kat tried to force the strands apart with his hands.

"You can't run, they'll find you and bring you back here."

"Leave it, pal," I said quickly. "Anywhere's better than here, let's go. Get outta here, Waldo!"

"Luck, fellas," Waldo wriggled back into the darkness.

Those sleeping were awoken by others. Soon everyone was on his feet and facing the gate. Unable to see above the many heads I heard the chains removed and the groan of the hinges as the two gates were opened inwards by unseen hands.

"Stay together lads. Keep an eye on one another and we'll get through this." The order to march came loudly and tonelessly. We were marching out of the gate and over to waiting trucks flanked by men armed with thick cudgels. They were not in Cadian khaki, instead they wore a darker uniform, the only distinguishing feature of which was a gold letter 'I' on the breasts of their body armour.

* * *

 **Kasr Kraf, Room 99**

Mundanity was not part of Osvat Radu Zeleska's daily routine. Under Lord Inquisitor Torquemada Coteaz's orders however, it now dogged his day-to-day tasks. The questioning of those his masters harboured suspicion towards was the job of the Interrogators, simple men who held station far lower than Zeleska, himself being a fully-qualified Inquisitor and servant of the Inquisition. To say he outranked his job was an understatement.

Room 99 had never appealed to Zeleska despites its furnishings and warmly inviting décor, it put it at odds with the rest of the facility. Room 99, located deep underneath the Kasr, had the sole purpose of putting suspects at ease to make the interrogations smoother. Zeleska knew of other wings in the facility where uncooperatives were relegated to slightly less irregular forms of questioning: beatings, water-boarding, starvation, sleep deprivation, assaults on the senses with bright lights and loud noises. His task though was not to hurt the suspects in any way either mentally or physically, but to form a connection with them, get them to open up willingly for, contrary to popular opinion, the Inquisition only employed torture as a last resort. The sole reason for this was that the subject under scrutiny _had_ to confess of his own accord and not whilst he or she was being tortured. Of course Zeleska, if questioned himself on whether torture was an effective means of uncovering information, would say that no, torture was not an efficient process. It was a satisfying way to spend an afternoon however. And there was something oddly satisfying in knowing that a suspect had truly been broken in body, in spirit, and in mind.

Aside from his extra-curricular activities below ground Zeleska had finely acquainted himself in Cadian society. He had met the new lord castellan, a man no one had heard of before the revolt at Tyrok Fields; Creed his name was. Other influential lords, all military men, had accepted him graciously, some a little too overtly. The amused Zeleska had noted that many were quite afraid of him, now that he enjoyed. There was one who did not show even the remotest trace of unease around him. This woman was Lieutenant Colonel Donjeta Lapraik. Curiously the colonel could have passed for someone in her twenties but was actually thirty-five years old. What else interested Zeleska was her bluntness and how she spoke her mind, instantly voicing her dislike for his boyish looks and his smile on the initial exchange. Taken aback Zeleska first felt outraged at the cheek then had to bottle up his mirth and fight hard not to burst out laughing. How was it that all the men around him were so afraid of him and this woman was not? Lapraik then asked Zeleska whether he had ever commanded troops in the field, and if so where. Denying that, Zeleska once more shook his head when Lapraik ventured further and enquired if he had ever served in a forward area. Retorting, Zeleska wondered aloud if she was afraid of him. Lapraik's reply was to point at the ceiling and say that the Eye of Terror was all the Cadians feared. No little men in suits and wearing golden seals could frighten her. To Zeleska's annoyance Lapraik steadfastly refused to be seduced, herself outright saying his charms would only work on a certain type of woman that would not be found anywhere on Cadia.

Now, starved of women and stuck in mind-numbingly boring work Zeleska cursed silently and raised his eyes to the surveillance skulls hovering in the four corners of the room. On the desk on front of him were masses of papers, hard copies of the details of suspects to be interviewed. The 'In' tray was twelve inches higher than the 'Out' tray even after a week's work.

 _Little men, simple men, insignificant and irrelevant,_ Zeleska screwed up his face and dashed the bigger pile onto the floor. _Let them all be found guilty in the Inquisition's eyes, for all I care._

"Kora, my love," Zeleska put his head in his hands. "Why did you betray me?" Still hurt at what Kora had done Zeleska left his chair and stepped over the fallen sheets of paper to the side counter. Pouring himself a glass of amasec he brooded over his fortunes, quickly downing two glasses in short order before settling on a third. It was flicking through the documents scattered across the carpeted floor when Zeleska recognised or thought he recognised a name. In such a lethargic state due to boredom his mind dismissed it and tossed the identical sheet away before he realised that in fact he did know the name of the individual.

"Well…" Zeleska took the crumpled sheet back to his desk and smoothed it out in front of him. Pressing a button Zeleska leant close to a thin microphone on a curved stand and spoke to an aide. "Argus, or Lenz, whichever it is currently, are the new shipment of arrivals with us?"

"Yes, my lord," Argus' voice.

"You are to bring someone to me, with all haste."

"Who, my lord?"

"A soldier. His name is Arvin James Larn."

"Yes, my lord."

Zeleska then did something he had never done before. He ordered a bowl of fruit to be delivered to Room 99 at once.


	14. Chapter 13

**Kasr Kraf, Cadia**

Paint was flaking from the wall, itself a dull lime-green with shades of grey showing beneath the outer layer. The smell of floor-polish clouded the air, making it impossible not to ingest in with every breath taken. The noxious scent made it all the more difficult to stand, still and silent.

Feet apart, hands clasped behind my back, I had waited – with many others in line – hours for the processing, debriefing, whatever important term the military interrogators deemed suited to the exercise. Forbidden to speak, I felt the iron-shackles of Guard life, and the strict discipline that came with it, begin to fasten around me once again, binding me to a cause that we had all forgotten about after Nemtess.

Hour after hour the great green machine snatched us up one by one and kicked us, with an impersonal ruthlessness, back into heavily-monitored circulation. Every now and again men passed by me, freed from the cold confines of the debriefing room where no doubt a pair of investigators, hard, unemotional men with a callous disdain for the everyday grunt waited with cold, dead fingers poised over terminal keyboards; ready to sign the soul away to oblivion. As the last in line I had the longest wait. None of my mates were nearby, we had been carefully separated in an underground motor pool where we de-bused from the fleet of four-tonne Hennus trucks they – whoever they were – had sent to bring us in. Ordered into lines, the exhausted veterans of Nemtess were marched single file through a maze of blank corridors, none of which displayed any maps or signs. The only landmarks were doors, blastproof affairs that were some form of reinforced alloy, the types that rose upwards on hydraulics and made ominous hisses. It was in one of these featureless corridors I now found myself alone in. Afraid to budge in case a sadistic senior NCO had me under eyes, I remained stock still, counting down the seconds in my head. Each man before me had passed by without a word to those still queued up, giving no indication what the next should do. Ten minutes passed, six-hundred seconds I made exactly, before I chose to move.

Coming to attention, my worn boot heel slapping loudly on the hard floor, I performed an about-face to the left, and marched down the corridor in the direction every other man had gone. The floor by now had lost its shine, so many dirty boots traipsing Cadian grass and soil everywhere. I counted it as a victory, however tiny, against the system that had disgusted me by its disregard for human life; the very same system that disavowed me too when I became a liability to them. Every speck of mud left behind was a blow dealt, and they could do nothing about it.

Turning a corner my eyes flicked left and right, settling on a door that was on its own oddly. In the maze of doors, where every other was at equal intervals, this stood alone. It did not stand apart from its brethren, the architecture was a mirror copy and unremarkable. Perhaps that was why I felt a trifle uneasy approaching it. In the maze of identical doors, why was this by itself?

My suspicion that unseen eyes followed me were confirmed when the door parted from the floor and rose upwards with not the slightest sound. Swallowing I clenched my fists tightly and marched in, coming to attention before a desk. Expecting the loud echo of my boot's rubber sole I was perturbed when it came into contact with – not the hard floor that was underfoot outside – but soft carpet. Taken aback by the abrupt change in my environment I realised I was staring at a massive portrait of some long-forgotten general who was decked out in full regalia, gongs and all. Around it the walls were a dark wood colour where similar pieces of art were arranged. The desk in front of me was a reddish wood, oiled, well treated, and covered in a white cloth. On top of that was a small terminal, an ashtray, a pile of papers, and a small model of a battleship mounted on a stand.

"Are you the last?" The speaker was standing just outside my peripheral vision and existed as a blur.

"Sir!" I replied forcefully.

"…Yes then. Very well, stand at ease, corporal."

"Sir," I heard the muffled thump of the carpet underfoot as I stood easy, still however feeling distinctly uneasy. Such an inviting room was disturbingly out of place in a military establishment; and one as sparse and utilitarian as Cadia at that.

Hands clasped tightly behind my back I kept my eyes glued to the wall as a tall man came into clear view. His attire was non-military, yet nor was it close to the grey of the Adeptus Arbites, the Imperium's police force; nicknamed Tin Men. The double-breasted blue jerkin the man wore displayed gold trim and reeked of wealth. He himself was tall, many inches over six feet and had a considerable build that matched his height. A wry grin ghosted his handsome features that looked like they were sculpted by an artist's hands. Two bright eyes underneath prominent brows surveyed me even as my own eyes stared through him at the wall behind.

"Sit down, please." The man indicated a leather-backed chair beside me then sat down on his own.

I sat down stiffly and waited.

"A drink perhaps first? A little Sacra I find clears the head," he said kindly, nodding at a sideboard loaded with drinks and a bowl of fruit. "Sample the fruit I implore you."

Keeping my mouth tight shut I glanced at the assorted fruits. The moment the first syllable had left the man's mouth I was instantly suspicious of him and his generosity, not knowing who he was or why I was there. Where were the blunt interrogation methods?

Giving a little 'hm' the man said with a grin, "Oh very well, you – your body is still adjusting to Cadian time I understand, as is mine. My name is Osvat. You are…?"

"Larn," I said stone-faced, "Corporal, 84593820."

"Exemplary," he muttered, turning to his terminal and typing at the keys one-handed. "Now," he clapped his hands. "To start I must learn from you… this."

"Sir?" I looked down as two black and white images slightly larger than my hands were pushed across the table to me.

"Young man, I am not, nor have I ever served in any branch of His Imperial Majesty's Astra Militarum; I am a civilian."

Glancing up at the man who called himself Osvat, I noticed a gold letter 'I' fastened to a chain around his neck. I did not need three guesses as to what his profession really was.

"What do you see in these two images?"

The first was a Greenskin, nothing significant, just another mindlessly cunning brute who specialised in making graves for imperial guardsmen. The second was a Stickie clad in black armour adorned with spikes.

"Xenos."

"Which one disgusts you more?"

Wordlessly I pointed to the Greenskin. Osvat swept away the photos and replaced them with a different set. The first showed a Marine brandishing a Bolter. Chaotic decorations grew from nooks in his armour, spreading like a pestilence; corrupting him. The other was a two-legged beast with long, curved blades for claws and sharply-ridged spines.

"Which one disgusts you more?"

I pointed to the Marine. I had no idea what the other one was. The third pair Osvat presented to me made my heart skip a beat. Feeling the hairs on my arms stand on end I leant over the two photos. The first showed a skull-like facial profile of a human with a shaved head and tattoos on his cheeks and forehead. The other, to my alarm, I recognised instantly: Izuru Numerial.

"Which one disgusts you more?"

Swallowing – my throat had dried up – I laid a finger on the human. Osvat's blank, unconcerned gaze never faltered when he swept them away into a drawer. Awaiting the terse batch of questions I sat as still as I could with folded hands. Across from me, Osvat leant away in his leather-backed chair and sipped from a goblet, staring away into space. Aware of the silence dragging, the mask of dumb ignorance affixed over my unease strained to uphold itself. Was this how an Inquisition interrogation played out?

"Ha!" Osvat laughed suddenly, placing his goblet on the corner of the table. My concentration faltered, making me flinch in alarm. "Did I answer rightly, you are thinking now?" Osvat scratched the side of his head where the barber had left bare. Both sides were shaved to the skin with only the crown showing hair. Propping his feet up on the table, Osvat pushed himself backwards until both front legs of his chair were in the air. "Let me tell you, you are wrong and you are right. Both are correct yet both are false. It does not matter."

I kept a straight face, refusing to be drawn into a game of words.

"Questions, beating, starvation, were they the horrors you imagined would befall you here?" Osvat asked, linking his fingers together and resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. When I did not reply he continued. "Ah of course not, you're a smart boy, I can see it behind that face. A firm measure of cunning concealed underneath the ignorance of youth; very smart playing on that. What you also will have noticed is that I am not a military man, nor am I law enforcement, I answer to a different party, the name of which I am forbidden to speak. My employers are not torturers, contrary to those wild stories our boys on the frontline love to peddle. We are gatherers of information, brokers of knowledge. What they say about the tanks of the Imperial Guard crushing everything in their paths is true, however when you shine another light on it, approach it from a different angle, you will appreciate, and maybe understand, how such sayings become reality. Guns win fights. Intelligence wins wars. Does that make sense?"

I tilted my head as if to say 'somewhat'.

"Speak, please. Nothing said in this room leaves."

"Am I a prisoner?" I said quietly.

Osvat grinned, "Hmm, I would say no, you are not as long as you remain in this room under my supervision. Here you may speak as if you were in familiar company."

"You're not familiar company."

"Distrusting the stranger in the night who offers to share his meal with you is what any sensible person would do in your place."

"Why am I here?"

"First a question from me, then you may ask. Does it give you satisfaction, slaying the Emperor's enemies?"

"Just followin' orders."

"As you should, but do you like it?"

"It's just a job, it's nothin' personal."

"Alright, let's have one from you."

"Why am I here?"

Tapping his fingers on his knuckles Osvat's eyebrows rose. "Alas, there are those obtuse individuals shilly-shallying, day-in day-out, meandering around the subject, too frightened to touch it even lightly." Sighing he continued, "Those are the kinds of people I have to work with. It's not like in the Guard where everything is delivered straight up, free from sugar-coating. It sounds like bliss. Why am I here? You ask. Well, it is proper procedure." Osvat's eyes flashed, "And where would the Imperium of Man be without all the paperwork and red tape—throne I love bureaucracy!"

Osvat's hands tightened over the covers on the arms of his chair, twisting the creaking leather. "Forthwith now, do you recall the events on Nemesis Tessera?"

I nodded silently, simultaneously wondering, _how does he know about Nemtess?_

"Now you."

"What's gonna happen to me and my mates?"

"…That is entirely up to you, young man," Osvat said mysteriously. The cloud that had passed across his face lifted when he asked, in a suddenly friendly manner, "Do you know how impressed I was with your performance in combat?"

"What?" I whispered, bemused by the quick change in his manner.

"Outstanding kill ratio," Osvat slapped a file on his desk. "I have the report here."

 _And who was there to write the after-action report_? Not a single soul was with me during my, quite frankly, suicidal stand on the outskirts of the city; the name of which I could not recall.

"Did I mention the excellent kill ratio just then? Ah, I did didn't I?" Osvat snapped his fingers in the air. "Damnable memory."

"How d'you know all that?" I stared broodingly at the brown paper file which I assumed held the after-action report.

"That would be telling, besides you would rather you did not know how such information is acquired at the end of the day. They say ignorance is bliss, so count yourself lucky you are," Osvat said jovially. "It also keeps you safe."

"Is this punishment?"

"Hah! On the contrary, young man, and if I can just…" Osvat's fingers pried open the file and removed the yellowish documents inside. "Aha! Couldn't for the life of me figure out how these files opened, but there we are. Karamaya was the city yes, the capital of Nemesis Tessera?"

I nodded, "Yeah that was it."

"And you had command of Company C, 1 Neria, 228th Regiment, part of Nerian 3rd Division?"

"You know all this," I said. _Why do you want it from my mouth?_

"I just wanted to hear it from the horse's mouth—no offence intended of course." Osvat raised a hand briefly in apology. "It certainly makes for interesting reading and — if you'll pardon my amusement – it reads like a script from a motion picture. You know the ones shown on the telescreens every week?"

I did not and shook my head.

"Oh well certainly it appears farcical—fantastical—a more appropriate verb I would say. But really though, I trust my sources, they are reliable as long as their cheques are filled out, and my coffers are far from empty; as I said from the horse's mouth."

"What does the report say?"

"How do these statistics sound to you?" Osvat fixed a monocular to his eye and began reading. "Fifty-five Chaos infantry dead and one hundred and twenty-seven wounded to – on our side – zero casualties." He let the sheets droop in his hands and stared over them at me. "How?"

"Artillery, I had a bloke with me who called for artillery before the Perfs wasted him. Used it as a shield, walked it in the closer the Perfs got."

"That's understandable, but you know this better than I do that artillery barrages are inconsistent, certainly it would not have been enough to halt six tanks and… two reinforced infantry companies, 338 men, _with_ accompanying Marine advisors. I cannot fathom…"

"If you want a blow-by-blow replay—"

"I'll ask another? Who, who else was there with you?"

"Just me, I sent the company to the rear. We were down to twenty men."

"And you stayed?"

"Someone had to."

"Why?"

"No one else would."

"Tell me about the enemy, their tactics, general disposition."

"A smokescreen from a burning tank made it difficult for them to spot me. Visibility weren't too good I remember. I don't think the Perfs conceived a man using it as cover, 'specially 'cause it was loaded with fuel and ammo."

"A burning tank, a timebomb," Osvat noted with a half-smile. "I imagine you turned its weapons on the enemy?"

"Fifty cal."

"The Moses .50 calibre is a fine piece of engineering. But I must ask how it felt to stand on top of a burning tank that was in danger of blowing up at any moment?"

"It was the first time in ten days my feet were warm," I replied flatly.

"Hm, I like that dry wit. How did it feel?"

"It felt like my feet were thawing out."

"How did it feel doing the Emperor's work? I can only imagine the reason for you heroic stand was because of your faith in the Emperor and steadfast belief in human superiority."

"Yes, yes that's exactly why I did it," I lied.

"And with a prayer on your lips and fire in your belly you defeated the vile hordes of Chaos, standing proudly over the corpses of your enemies. Does that not make you feel good?"

"Yes," I said, not meeting his eyes.

"Then why did you desert the moment reinforcements arrived?" Osvat's affable demeanour disappeared. In its place was a stern look of disdain bordering on outrage.

"Because I was wounded—had been wounded in an earlier contact," I retorted.

Osvat muttered something and skimmed through his papers, a slight frown on his face. _He did not know about that_ , I realised, so his sources were not as meticulous as was previously thought.

"Wounded how and where?"

"My platoon got left behind, abandoned during the retreat. I got shrapnel 'bout the size of my fingernail right here," I pointed at the centre of my chest. "I had it for days, thought it was killing me so I thought I'd try make something of myself before it did."

"Noble…" Osvat's fingers typed furiously. "So, you went to the rear for aid?"

"I uh, fell asleep in this factory. That's the last I remember."

"Then you awoke on a – what nickname do you have for them – Stickie? Stickie ship if the reports from other men you were with are true?"

"Yeah."

"Unsure of how you got there?"

"Yeah."

"With your wound healed?"

"Yes," I looked down at my hands.

"You know I could have you shot here and now for what the xenos did to you."

Trying to quell the rising fear I clenched my hands tighter. The leather of the seat behind me was warm from the heat off my back.

Osvat grinned and chuckled, again the darkness in his expression evaporating just like that. "Some of my colleagues, hardliners, would do exactly that." Removing his boots from the tabletop Osvat put them on the floor and sat up straight. "I will be honest, I bend the rule a lot, and I don't want to see talent like yours sent to the incinerator for obliteration. Arvin James Larn, we can help each other out." Osvat was smiling widely now as he leant forwards, resting his chin on his hands.

"Nothing doing," I said.

"But thou must!" Osvat's put on a wide-eyed expression. "Seriously though, we can honestly do each other a favour. I have been shunted into this menial appointment which, honestly, I could do without. I want to get back on the fast track here. The prospects of advancing my career have never been higher what with the current situation this planet finds itself in. You are the exact person I need to help me do that."

"Why should I help you?"

"Several, many reasons I can think of off the bat." Osvat glanced at the ceiling as if trying to recall a list he had stored in his memory. "Oh actually it is only one real reason: you are an out-and-out heretic."

I blinked.

"Though you have the Emperor to thank, even if he has forsaken you, that I was the one who found you first and not a hardliner, for I am sure he or she would be very happy if I were to turn you over to them on charges of heresy." Osvat said matter-of-factly.

"What charges?"

"I would rather not list them all, even we civilians need our sleep," Osvat checked the chrono on his wrist. "For convenience let us skip over them. I know about Platis, I know about Grendel, I know about you, and I know about her."

It was no coincidence seeing Izuru Numerial's face as Osvat now laid the very same shot of the Stickie as before in front of me. "Do you recognise this xeno?"

I kept silent, a knot of dread forming in my stomach. He already knew that I knew so why bother replying?

"Inconsequential, I know of your misadventures together and, heresy aside, it is still a somewhat entertaining read. That I shall not deny."

"What's the Stickie got to do with anything?"

"There it is," Osvat threw back his head and laughed. "I want you to work for me. Any nuggets of information, even the most benign of facts you can glean from Izuru Numerial would be extremely beneficial to me, discovering her assets and accomplices… even better."

"You want me to spy for you?"

"Mmm, spy no. You would be a Gatherer, not of materials but of knowledge."

"…No."

"Oh…" Osvat rose wearily from his chair, rubbed his hands together and came around to perch on the corner of the table. "Two rooms down, a corridor away from here, is another chamber. Inside are two of my acolytes. They do not ask questions."

"Thought you weren't torturers."

"A last resort. Now where was I? You don't even know what your side of the bargain is yet. Don't you want to?"

"What do I get?"

"You get to live!" Osvat grinned from ear to ear. "You and a select few individuals of your choice will be assigned to a disciplinary outfit on charges of such-and-such, whilst being completely cleared of all previous crimes. You asked what was going to happen to your friends and I said that was completely up to you; it is. All you need do is agree to my terms."

"I don't know where she is," I gave a little shrug.

"Oh you'll cross paths again. I am not a believer in destiny but first Platis, then Grendel, and now Nemesis Tessera? They are curious coincidences."

"What do I do if I meet her?"

"What you would normally do if you were on speaking terms with an enemy of the Imperium. You must be cautious. Don't pry too deeply else she will become suspicious."

"I think she trusts me."

"Perfect! Perfect," Osvat folded his arms and beamed. "To have the trust of a xeno is… I will say this, you are in an extremely good position, don't waste it. Use any means necessary to extract information from Izuru Numerial."

"Okay," I said, trying to keep the reluctance from my voice. "Any means necessary?"

" _Any_." Osvat put heavy emphasis on the word. "This Stickie is a known agitator responsible for many civilian deaths on Grendel. Anarchy is her modus operandi."

I was on the verge of blurting out that she was driven primarily by her love for her children only to catch myself. Interpreting that as something different entirely, Osvat said, "And before you ask, you will not be reporting back to me directly. Instructions on what to do you will find when you reach your new posting."

Swallowing, I took several deep breaths. "Alright."

"You are making the right choice here, young man. Your decision will help save Imperial lives. You have saved Imperial lives by agreeing to this."

"What about the rest. There were hundreds in that cage I was with. Why can't I save them too?" I looked up at Osvat slowly.

"No matter how many are paid to look the other way, several hundred soldiers that have appeared under mysterious circumstances, and by rights should have been lost to the enemy, cannot simply be-redeployed. The risk of spreading the taint of Chaos is too great."

"So, you're gonna what? Stick 'em in the cells, execute them?"

"Were you under the impression that you would be treated as heroes after your hair-raising escape from the enemy's clutches? You had to resort to allying with the Eldar, which was entirely unsanctioned, to make it here. You know full well our policy regarding xenos. To consort with them is a crime; that is the law."

"How many?"

"No more than what you can count on your fingers. Write their names down and I shall do the rest."

The names of those I was allowed to save came quickly to mind. Scribbling them on the back of a torn sheet of paper I handed them over without comment. Back behind his desk Osvat held the names under the light and keyed them into his terminal. "Not thirsty at all?"

"No, thank you," I said firmly despite my throat being dry as sandpaper and the stomach aching for sustenance.

"When you are back in the field, you may find your loyalties are conflicted, that's perfectly understandable," Osvat turned his attention back to me. "But remember who put you in that chair, and who gave you this second chance. Don't squander it."

"Yes, sir," I clamped my mouth shut, biting down on the acid-laced retort. I dearly wanted to tell this arrogant 'civilian' what he could do with his precious intelligence, and to further add to that, shout in his face that if he believed he could hurt Izuru through me, I would make him pay in his own blood. But I was not in a position to talk back, I could only sit and agree with everything he said. He had all the cards tight to his chest and held himself with the smugness of a player who carried a winning hand; and there was nothing I could do to save myself.

* * *

 **The House of Trazyn, Solemnace**

For so long the skittering appendages of the Scarabs, busily cleaning and tidying the spotless chambers, were all that broke the silence on Solemnace. Left to her own devices for extended periods of time, Shesmet walked the city-wide galleries, alone and without guidance. The endless vaults, crowded with men, monsters, and machines, all frozen in suspended animation, were like no other collection Shesmet had ever seen. Where some liked to collect little pieces of history for preservation, it was clear from some of the more impressive exhibits that Trazyn wished to own entire events, and keep the belligerents frozen for eternity, all for the sake of his amusement. Though disturbingly similar to a menagerie, Shesmet felt drawn to it all and could do little to sate her curiosity, wishing to observe just how Trazyn could acquire so many beings and important pieces of technology. Ever since the day on Cadia, and the strange magic of the pylons, Shesmet felt inclined to question everything she knew. When cornered during a short period where Trazyn had stayed in Shesmet's company, Trazyn openly told her to not bother trying to apply logic to anything anymore. In her previous, human life, such reasoning could be applied to everything, but the minute she had touched that pylon, everything she knew, or rather thought she knew, was no longer applicable. "We are beings that exist on a higher plane to the mortal man now, young one. That you must understand. Think like a human and you will never be free of your past."

How long Shesmet was alone she could not tell, there was nothing to keep track of the passage of time in the House of Trazyn. It was never night or day, never dawn or dusk, not even a sign when it was time for supper; and if she did eat it was always by herself. Now, lonely and at odds with what to do with herself, Shesmet sought out her keeper. For a time she mulled over what Trazyn was to her. Was he her jailer, her protector? The ageless being seemed content to let her roam, with her only boundaries being the walls of the palace, if she ever could ever find them. So immense Trazyn's house was it would be years before Shesmet might stumble upon a gateway to the surface.

What lay above ground had not interested her up until a point during Trazyn's longest absence. To Shesmet's surprise it had been her who had appeared to him all of a sudden, and not the other way around, with Trazyn quietly announcing himself so as not to alarm her. Shesmet had wandered in to what passed as a banquet hall, complete with a long, narrow table, and great stone chairs. It could have almost passed for human were it not for the great size of each seat. Though above average height for her species' gender, Shesmet's feet could not reach the floor, her arms too would have to be spread wide in order to rest on the arms. The strange, over-sized furniture was however perfectly suited to Trazyn who was seated at the head of the table, in front of what looked like a hearth.

"You are all alone here…" Shesmet said, feeling strangely sorry for the mechanical man.

"My dear, solitude has been my companion for millennia," Trazyn's gently glowing eyes rose from the smooth tabletop. "It has given me peace, peace for me to indulge in my lifelong wish." Lifting his hand up, Trazyn stared at his fingers. "Even in death, I can find some measure of purpose."

"Were you like us once?" Shesmet rounded one of the high-backed seats, "With bodies of flesh and blood?"

Trazyn's voice was grave when he spoke, and when he did it was with lament. "There was a time when we were known as the Necrontyr. Humanoid like you but bigger, stronger, more innovative, and longer lived. Alas, our advancements could do nothing to halt nature. Radiation from a nearby star wizened us, made us sick, and replaced reason with madness. It was when we declared war on the Old Ones over their refusal to grant us aid, that our race was lost. Abandoning all sane thought we sold our bodies to the Star Gods, in exchange for immortality, but at the cost of our minds. As beings neither living nor dead we butchered the Old Ones. Then we butchered the Star Gods for their deceit. And now our species' rage when we fell into slumber is returning. Across the galaxy Tomb Worlds are awakening. My people are stirring."

Listening solemnly throughout, Shesmet felt a chill enter the room, enough for her to draw the scaled cloak tighter around her shoulders. "And your people, they are like you?"

"I retained sentience; the same could not be said for so many others. Simple-minded and cruel, their only desire is to harvest, to slay all in their paths over some twisted sense of revenge. I fear they have become little more than mindless killers, and I am powerless to make them see sense." Trazyn bowed his head in sorrow. "I had a mate…" He began, rising from his seat.

On his own two feet! Shesmet realised. Trazyn walked on his own two feet, though it was completely lacking in fluidity. Both legs appeared to be struggling to hold him up, in the same manner an elderly human might wake up to find his or her joints weakened with age. Astonished, Shesmet saw, for a moment before Trazyn lifted himself into the air, an ancient, lonely being, bitter at the loss of his people, and perhaps his family. It almost brought a tear to her eye.

"Come now, I have droned on for too long," Trazyn said, the weariness in his voice vanishing. "I bid you take this hand. For too long you have been away from the affairs of the galaxy. It is time you saw the sun again."

* * *

 **Cadia Primus, Cadia**

Much had changed since Shesmet had last set foot on Cadia. Shesmet remembered the area around the very same pylon she had been taken by was dominated by thickly wooded hillsides pockmarked by open fields. In Trazyn's company now, Shesmet returned to a very different Cadia than the one she had left.

Chaos had descended upon Cadia Primus, conducting a campaign of extermination. Against the sparely-populated northern continent, with few firebases to raze, the forces of Chaos had set fire to the landscape, blasting every single tree for hundreds of miles around, leaving fire-blackened stumps dotted across an ash-strewn waste. So thick were the coils of smoke, in many places they blotted out the sun.

"Judgement is descending upon Cadia," Trazyn remarked.

Viewing the desolation from afar, Shesmet said, "Were your people responsible for the pylons?"

"Possibly, I do not know. It is curious that the hordes left this one without taint."

"Why have we returned here?"

"I sense a turning point in galactic history will shortly be upon us. Trazyn must not miss it. Let us follow this chain of destruction southwards."

Fortified cities flashed by beneath them, their walls cast down, and their buildings levelled until all that remained were heaps of rubble and a few stone walls. Further south the extent of the damage to the land and man-made structures petered out. The Chaos hordes, however barbaric, were methodical in their demolition, and were taking their time in ensuring every last taint of the Imperium was eradicated before moving on.

"This is the furthest extent of the enemy's thrust," Shesmet noticed an untouched group of trees bordering a surprisingly green field. What she had seen were half a dozen trails cutting through the grass and visible only from the air. Shesmet and Trazyn watched as a platoon-sized unit of Chaos infantry wriggled forwards their bellies. Somehow seeing without being seen in return – Shesmet had not questioned it – the two beings, both wrapped in scaled capes, observed the quiet before the storm.

"Almost, but not quite," Trazyn pointed a scaly finger at whom Shesmet had supposed were Chaos. "They are Eldar…"

"Eldar…?"

"One of the Old Ones' many creations, vain, manipulative, and cruel; a failed experiment."

"Why?" Shesmet asked.

"As with my race, the Eldar once ruled the galaxy. But they too squandered it when their hedonism, their debauchery spawned the entity that resides inside the great warp storm that makes the sky here pink; your Eye of Terror. History repeats."

"I had them as pirates, little more than petty raiders. Not soldiers."

"Even fragmented and their worlds scattered far by solar winds, the Eldar are still a force to be reckoned with. These warriors are from the Aeldari Fleet, yet their ships are many systems away. What draws them to Cadia?"

"I cannot answer that," Shesmet replied.

"Nor did I intend you to. That would be a rhetorical question, would it not?"

Shesmet smiled briefly. "Is this what you do, observe from afar?"

"Observe and wait, but more importantly, look and see. The humans aligned with Chaos await the Eldar in ambush." Trazyn took Shesmet's hand and guided her southwards to the thin screen of trees lining the fields. Concealed from view were many armoured scout vehicles, spaced out at intervals, with their gun barrels trained on the field which, from ground level, was an unbroken sea of green. It was not only the southern boundary that the Chaos vehicles occupied, but the western fringes too. An L-shaped ambush, Shesmet realised. Every square inch of the field could be covered by heavy quantities of fire which the gunners could employ without fear of hitting other friendly units involved. The lightly-armed Eldar would be massacred.

"And whose side are we on?" Shesmet looked worriedly at Trazyn. Spectating as beings were slaughtered by gratuitous firepower – despite being xenos – made her feel uneasy.

"Side? I am on no-one's side. I am Trazyn. On one side are hordes of murderous barbarians, the other are vicious and wholly unpredictable aliens. Neither deserve our attention."

"Aliens are they? Then does that makes me one of those barbarians too?" Shesmet said coldly.

"You ceased to be human the moment I brought you through that portal to _my_ house as _my_ guest. Shesmet, you have chosen to exist on a higher plane than the smallfolk. You cannot liken yourself to those insignificant beings in their inconsequential, little wars of attrition. They will die as all mortals do, faceless and forgotten, whilst we, the gods, live on."

"But you said, from your very mouth, that you were not a god because gods do not care about the sufferings of the mortals. Have you brought me here to observe the sufferings of others? To show me what wars are really like? I know conflict, in my past life I was close to an officer in the Imperial Guard, I learned details from him. He was a good man, once."

"A fallacy," Trazyn raised his staff, the tip of which glowed white. "One can still wield power and not be a god. See how easily manipulated the humans are."

Whether on Trazyn's command or of their own volition, the Chaos armour opened up on the bare field. Clapping her hands over her ears – having forgotten just how loud vehicle-mounted weaponry was – Shesmet watched as heavy automatic gunfire raked the still grass. Bright green tracers, almost white in daylight, skimmed the frozen shapes of the Eldar, in many places flying upwards into the sky after ricocheting from the ground. Puffs of red filled the air. Blood sprayed across slashed stalks and mixed in with earth that was whipped up in clods. A hand, neatly severed from a wrist, was flung into the sky. Struck with horror, Shesmet felt her throat contract. In the space of a few seconds it had dried completely. Nearly put to tears she turned to Trazyn, who replied with the laziest flick of a finger.

Still occupied by the enemy hidden in the grass, the Chaos armour did not notice one of their own swing its turret around to track the vehicle thirty yards away from it. Dismayed, Shesmet winced as the eight-wheeled armoured car fired its heavy autocannon at its ally, setting it on fire once the rounds punched through the thin flank and torched the engine inside. Trazyn did that one after another, turning the enemy's weapons on each other with startling ease. "This is power," he said.

Ears bleeding, half-unconscious from the deafening wallops of the autocannons, Izuru held her Moses limply up as she dragged herself through the scene of devastation. Great swathes of the, once green, grass were now on fire, with the earth beneath it overturned and scattered with smoking ash.

Against Izuru's expectations, the remaining thirty warriors under her command had navigated the minefields beneath the Valesian Ridge without a single casualty, and stole south, where the enemy's troop disposition was lightest. By day they crawled, by night they ran, through razed settlements, fire-bombed military installations and the desolate wastes that had once been the great northern continent, Cadia Primus. It had not even been four weeks since the enemy had landed but in that time he had battered through the Cadian Fleet, the planet's orbital defences, and swept aside all resistance on Primus in a terrible lightning war.

" _Leyko? Varro?_ " Izuru's jaw slackened. As if on the verge of sleep, her eyelids drooped. Before her, fires raged as enemy armour went up in flames, brewed up by unseen assailants. Wind blew gusts of blindingly-hot air over her. The pink sky was turning black, the sun blotted out by smoke. Trapped inside a tiny bubble, Izuru rose from the burning field and wandered amongst the row of wrecks. Figures clad in black suits and wreathed in flames danced around her, rolled about on the ground, and shot themselves with metal tools spitting honest fingers of lead. Their weapons had lied to them, deceived them, gained minds of their own and played a game of last gun standing. All this was in an eerie silence. Where there should have been constant noise from the continuous detonations as ammunition racks cooked off one after the other, there was nothing.

The strange measure of peacefulness that had overcome Izuru was interrupted when she felt a little kick down in her midsection. Her senses returning in part, though still blissfully detached from her current predicament, Izuru's hand flew to her stomach. _I am pregnant_ , she realised, but immediately after dismissing it. _How can I be with child when I have not lain with another?_ There it was again, a little kick. _By the Mother, I am giving birth!_ Izuru felt her knees collapse underneath her even as she toppled forwards through bushes and fell into shallow, muddy water. The chillness served as a wake-up for her exhausted body. Fingers wet, not with water, but with blood she held up to her face. A mess of torn skin underneath her grey fatigues was present where the baby was kicking. It could not be delivered normally. It would need to be cut out. " _Isha guide my hand,"_ Izuru murmured deliriously, drawing her knife from its sheathe. Blood was running down her arm and the back of her head. Angrily dismissing it as nothing Izuru lifted her fatigues up, baring her belly, and dug the point of her knife into the gash. _Why does the mother perform surgery on herself?_ One side of her wondered. _Do you think I would let another touch my newborn son?_ The other retorted fiercely. _After what Ilic and Korsarro_ _have been through it is a wonder why I even let them out at all._ " _Hush now, I would have peace as my third-born enters this world_ ," Izuru mumbled, giddy that she would shortly be cradling her child in her arms. Oblivious to how deep she had worked her knife, Izuru frowned concernedly when, through her heavily blurred vision, it appeared smoke was rising from her stomach. " _Is it too hot?_ " She pondered, digging her other hand inside, feeling the slippery walls inside her, but not her baby. " _Where are you?_ "

Drawn to the sole surviving Eldar, Shesmet, against Trazyn's wishes, went and listened to the odd ramblings of the curiously humanlike xeno who was half-submerged by the edge of a river, having strayed across the road where the armour had been hidden. Now lying in a delirium, the female xeno babbled things in a strange tongue that was incomprehensible to Shesmet. "What does she say?" Shesmet looked imploringly to Trazyn for answers. "She is in pain."

"The Eldar believes she is pregnant with her third child. But that is not the case," Trazyn said, dismissively gesturing with his staff at the Eldar's pale, white chest that was soaked in blood. "She is sorely mistaken, and will die as her companions have."

"No," Shesmet stopped scant feet from the dying xeno and saw her eyes were clenched shut, and her jaw set tightly. "Poor soul…"

"You cannot find commonality with this species. Outwardly you bear a vague resemblance to one another, but inwardly the rift between human and Eldar widens to the extreme."

Shesmet regarded the xeno with pity, but it was not too without a slight hint of jealousy. She had never been able to give birth, never had the facilities to do so. This alien had done so twice, and now believed this would be the third time. Shesmet, possessing a clear head, looked on sadly as the xeno dug a shard of metal the size of her hand out from her belly very slowly. _Poor soul_.

Amused, Trazyn said, "the xeno wonders why it gives of smoke, why it is so flat and hard. Its mind has taken leave of its body. Come let us leave it beside the riverbank to die."

"No, let me add it to your collection."

"An Eldar female is worthless to me, and one in such a weakened state would match poorly with my other pieces."

"Then cast her to the wind, let the river take her where it wills. I beg of you, Trazyn the Infinite."

Rounding on her, Trazyn's eyes flickered orange briefly then softened. "Call it what you will, but the Infinite will not meddle in the affairs of the smallfolk."

"And what of Shesmet, does she apply?"

"I forbid you—" Trazyn swooped down, but already Shesmet had broken free of his guard and was picking up the xeno in her arms.

"Perhaps you have forgotten compassion in all your years inside that shell," Shesmet said, ignoring Trazyn and gently depositing the Eldar face-up in the centre of the fast-flowing river. "I embrace it, even if you believe it makes me weak. It is what makes me human – which is what you referred to me as when telling me not to seek commonality with her."

Her toes brushing the water, Shesmet looked on as the unconscious Eldar was spirited away by the currents. Saying to herself, "it was just a little push, just a little push was all that was needed. Now be away. Seek a new existence, xeno, as I have."


	15. Chapter 14

**Cadia Primus, Northern banks of the Luten Estuary, 17:33 (Cadia Time)**

Rank upon rank of Cadians, men of the 403rd Light Infantry Brigade, captured after the fall of Primus and numbering in the thousands, marched despondently westwards along the single-lane highway. Their route would shortly take them north-west, swinging around sharply to follow the coastline, and away from the growing firestorm that would shortly engulf Cadia Secundus.

Cadia's second great continent was separated from Primus by an estuary, five klicks at its widest, leading to the Caducades Sea; Cadia's main source of water that covered seventy per cent of the planet's surface. Linking the two landmasses were road and rail bridges which the invading army was currently striving to gain. In going all out in their drive south, they routinely cut off and bypassed large pockets of Cadians who were then enveloped by Marines assault companies and crushed with Bolter and blade. Many Cadians died fighting. But many were forced to surrender in large groups simply because they were out of ammunition, food, or medical supplies. The once proud guardsmen, the pride of the Cadian Shock Troops, were quickly moved in huge columns out of the combat zone then back to rear areas and eventual captivity.

Eyes watched the snaking trail of bright khaki bodies and raised hands. Neither were they Marine or even closely affiliated with the Chaotic mobs of cultists that followed the corrupted Astartes around, worshipping them as gods. They belonged to a man named Woulter Leurbach. He and his son, Peter, were quite unlike the normal rabble that constituted the Chaos rank and file. Their unit, the Tabor Territorials, acted with autonomy and were free of chaotic corruption that ran rife through the Chaos ranks. The Tabors were firmly insurrectionists with a grudge against the Imperium and its petty tithes and enforcement of state religion, but neither were they wholly in love with the prospect of a Chaos-infested galaxy. They had been given an option, and the regiment's Officer Commanding had chosen for them; it was join or die.

Woulter Leurbach stepped sideways down a landslide of rubble, keeping an eye on his son who was below him. Peter was fifteen, and had never even seen a service weapon before the Tabors had forced a Loranta R-34 Lasgun into his untried hands. The drafting of all able-bodied males on Tabor had not included Woulter for he had been discharged on medical grounds during Phase One, seventeen years before. Certain physical and mental conditions had to be met for military service, and Woulter had met them all. The only shortcoming was his unfortunate allergy to the meat that was included in most operational ration packs, landing him with an instant '4-F' and a discharge. Woulter had been in boots for less than a week. He had not told his son for fear of shame. But with Peter now in his place, and his mother dead from pneumonia, Woulter had refused to wait for the eventual state message, coming years too late, saying his son had died for the Emperor. He promptly signed the dotted line, threatened to kick up a fuss if he was refused due to his past 4-F status, and went, with Peter, to war.

"It must be hard to leave everything behind, your family, your home, just like that," Peter said to his father.

"They are home, Son," Woulter replied, standing at his shoulder. "All those wives husbands leave behind, they're marching right with them."

Confused, Peter searched the ranks of bareheaded guardsmen and noticed there were women amongst them. "Do the men and women fight together, Dad?"

"Only on Cadia."

Father and son watched the PWs move by, then stole through a gap between the single Tabors posted on the point and rear-end of the columns. The six other men in the Leurbach's section were rootling through huge piles of discarded body armour left by the roadside. The olive green ceramite plates the Cadians had worn were now being scrounged by the Tabors as a substitute for their less durable and heavier flak jackets. Along with chest pieces, shoulder guards, and helmets were bandoliers of power paks, canteens, field packs, and everything else the Cadians were forced to divest themselves of by their captors.

"Any water?" A Tabor asked, throwing an empty canteen he had taken from the pile away. As a minor gesture of defiance every Cadian had emptied his or her canteen, burnt documents, be they military or personal, and thrown away all consumables. The other men, having searched high and low for any food or water, felt the lightness of their canteens on their hips, an ugly reminder that they were on their own and had no chance of resupply.

The Tabors were a minor organisation and therefore low priority on the list for relief. Not once in the two weeks they had been on Cadia had fresh compo, water, or ammunition been delivered, forcing them to resort to scrounging what they could whilst the more-favoured Chaos infantry brigades received rations and other comforts. Even the repulsive cultists, namely the Discilan Apostates who were active in the area of operations, were granted their share, be it supplies or live prisoners.

"There's a hosepipe in that back garden," the section leader said without looking up from where he squatted before the piles of armour.

"Take this, Son. Put it on." Woulter pulled two halves of the ballistic vest, the front and back, from the pile and passed them to Peter. Their own Doron-plated jackets would protect from fragmentation but would serve as little deterrent to bullets or lasfire.

"Make sure your back's not to the enemy…" The corporal held up the rear half of a ballistic vest. A hole about the size of a single credit had been made dead centre.

"Take your greatcoat off," Woulter grabbed the collar of Peter's greatcoat. "Won't fit otherwise."

Silently doing as he was told, Peter fumbled with the fastening straps of the vest, tightening it over his woollen battledress.

"Any food?" Woulter asked.

"No food," the lance corporal replied shortly, hurling an empty canteen over a stone wall. "We might as well be pris'ners 'ere."

The Tabor who had gone to find water returned abruptly and flopped down in the dirt. "No water."

Deciding the ongoing search was fruitless the corporal planted the butt of his Loranta into the ground and leant on it as he got to his feet. "Moving."

"Pick up your weapon, Peter," Woulter pointed at Peter's R-34 lying beside him. Seeing his son was still having trouble with his Cadian body armour, Woulter slung his own R-34 and helped with the unfamiliar straps and buckles.

"What they looking at, Dad?" Peter asked when he noticed the other mens' attention had been grabbed by something he could not see. Standing in the way, Woulter moved aside then began to push Peter backwards when he recognised them.

"Cultists. Run when I tell you, Peter," Woulter glanced at his son and nodded, "Don't listen to the corporal."

Where the last of the Cadian PWs had marched out of sight, two men, in starkly different attire to the dark khaki drab of the Tabors, had appeared. Peter, his eyes younger than his fathers', regarded the cultists, whom he could see quite clearly, with curiosity. Both had colourful sacks of cloth covering their faces with only two tiny eyeholes to see out of. The leftmost cultists, the taller, had on a double-breasted, sleeveless, leather greatcoat with bright yellow epaulettes. He wore it over his bare chest which displayed a blood red tattoo of an eight-pointed Chaos star. His companion, equally muscular as he was, had a torn, grey apron covering his front that bore recent bloodstains. Bayonetted KAs – Kazalak autoguns – were slung over their shoulders. The serrated blades were also dirty with blood and for whatever reasons they also carried a strange smell with them.

"Cultists," the corporal announced with little apparent concern. For whose benefit it was unclear, everyone had recognised them immediately. "Walk away, lads, they're on our side."

"You hear me, Son? Run as fast as you can when I say," Woulter said quietly.

"Corporal said—"

"He's wrong."

Leaving the piles of gear behind, Woulter and Peter's section began walking away. Watching the two cultists carefully, the hairs on Woulter's arms stood on end when they began nonchalantly following. The greatcoat-wearing cultist – Woulter dubbed him Commissar Coat – unnerved him for his gait could only be described as feminine. He took measured, precise footsteps that were exactly in sync with his comrade.

"That tattoo on his chest…" Peter trailed off.

"That ain't no tattoo, pal," the lance corporal said.

"Quietly now, withdraw," the corporal motioned. "They're not interested in us."

The street the section withdrew down narrowed. Tall buildings rose up on both sides, reducing the faraway sounds of battle to a soft rumbling in the background. Still moving in the same direction with an odd nonchalance, the cultists stopped by the small mountain of canteens and faced the Tabors over them.

"What are they doing? Why aren't they following anymore?" Peter, fear in his voice, looked between his father and the corporal. Nearly all eyes were on the two masked, and so far, silent cultists. The corporal's urgings to move farther away fell on deaf ears.

Knowing he had the Tabor's attention, Commissar Coat held up a full waterskin, pulled out the stop, and began to pour the contents out onto the road. Seeing the water splashing out stung the Tabors, what happened next only drove the nail deeper. Commissar Coat pulled his mask off and gave it to Bloody Apron. Astonished, Peter gaped at the handsome, blond face. He had been expecting some sort of hideous, deformed beast underneath, not this beautiful youth who looked scarcely over twenty. The others, Woulter included, saw Commissar Coat's mouth open and the sound of laughter come out. A Tabor raised his Loranta in anger.

"Put that weapon down, Private!" The corporal snapped. "They're on our side."

"Let's go, Corporal," the lance corporal stepped backwards, his R-34 in his hands.

"Can we go please?" Peter begged.

"Smartly now," the corporal said even though his ears were burning from the cultist's laughter. "We'll find food and water at the next town."

It irked Woulter that they could do nothing but leave, however he was relieved in equal measure that neither Commissar Coat nor Bloody Apron were following, both remained guffawing beside the piles of gear. Just what did they have to laugh about so much?

When acceptable distance had been put between them and the cultists, Woulter started to relax. The two were still in sight and simply stared after the Tabors. Neither made to unsling their rifles, they were just watching them silently with no clear intent. All was silent.

The corporal collapsed, his knees buckling underneath him. A heartbeat later a loud crack echoed down the street.

"Run for it!" The lance corporal shouted before he too was felled by an unseen marksman.

"Run, Peter, run!" Woulter grabbed Peter's sleeve and propelled him forwards. Leaderless, the section scattered, flying as quickly as their hobnailed boots would allow them, down the street. More rounds whizzed past them, the sharp reports coming a fraction after. Dirt and little bits of stone was kicked up by near-misses. A window was smashed desperately by three Tabors who had split from Woulter, Peter, and another, in a bid to get out of the line of fire. Their shouts of exasperation were quickly replaced by the sounds of bodies slumping amidst thick shards of broken glass as bullets found their mark. Still running in a straight line, all training in evasion having given way to survival instincts, Woulter saw a wooden gate at the end of the street and pulled Peter in its direction. The other Tabor, vainly flinging himself into doors in the hope that one might open, fell without a word, and was left behind.

"Throw it over!" Woulter tossed his R-34 over the six-foot high gate and leapt upwards. Peter's throw was poor, his R-34 bounced off the brick wall next to the gate and landed on the road with a loud clatter.

"Leave it!" Woulter cried, straddling the gate and hauling Peter up and over. Crouching in the corner of the brick wall, both father and son winced and covered their ears when an automatic came into play. The slow-firing weapon punched small holes through the wood, spraying splinters everywhere. In a brief lull in the firing, the sound of laughter could be heard.

"Why those dirty rats," Woulter pulled Peter up and in the direction of the next street over. Pausing briefly, Woulter fired his R-34 twice back through the gate in the direction of the faceless enemy. A futile display of defiance, he knew full well that Lasguns had notoriously poor penetrative capabilities, something that kinetic weapons excelled at. Nevertheless the Loranta died after its second shot. Cursing inwardly – Woulter had vowed never to use profanity in his sons' presence – he grabbed Peter's hand and pushed through a gate that led onto a side street. Unlike the avenue they had just left, this one was arranged in a strange zig-zag pattern.

"Dad, where are we—?" Peter began. He was white with fear and breathing heavily.

"Not now, Son, let's find somewhere safe first," Woulter replied. Though he tried his best to contain it, he was just as shocked at the sudden violence as Peter. That the section had been cut down so fast and with such surgical precision was terrifying. Just like that – a snap of the fingers – and it had happened.

Normalcy returned with the silence, as if the flurry of shots never happened. Woulter imagined the cultists emerging from their hiding places and silently stalking the Tabors who had escaped, with malicious intent. If it came to that, and he and Peter were cornered, he would do them both. That promise he would keep even if Peter did not agree. He was so young, so naïve. He did not understand that in some circumstances, it was better to be dead than alive; the former especially if the cultists caught him.

It was getting close to dusk by the time Woulter and Peter made it to the banks of the estuary, where giant loading docks took on and off cargo from overseas in its journey up the river to the Kasrs. Near-exhausted, Peter unclasped his ammunition belt underneath his ballistic vest and made to sit on a concrete slope that led down to the sand. "We can't stop here, Peter. We don't know how many more cultists are around," Woulter panted, awkwardly balancing on the incline.

"Where will we go, back to the company?" Peter removed his ceramite cover and scratched his sweaty head.

"They'll be away from this town else someone would have come running if they'd heard the shots. We're on our own out here."

Hugging his knees Peter rocked back and forth gently. "I need to shit," he muttered.

"Language, boy! You'll just have to wait. Let's try for that hauler out there."

Woulter was eying up a fat cargo hauler that had run aground on a sandbar about three hundred yards out. Its owners had fled during the initial stages of the invasion and had not returned since. For a fat slob of a vessel stacked with large, unopened shipping crates it was in surprisingly good shape. The shallow angle it was listing at had caused a handful of crates to slip free of their moorings and fall over the side, landing in the sand below and spilling out their contents. Since then however, the tide had seen that nothing could be salvaged from the burst crates as everything was either wet through with sea water or washed away into the sea.

Hurrying across the sand, hopping across shallow channels of water, Woulter and Peter made it to the hull of the hauler and searched for a way aboard. Woulter's heart sunk when he came upon several places where the red paint had been worn away. The marks were at equal intervals indicating a boarding ladder was supposed to be there to assist in scaling the smooth surface to a gangway that ended a good twenty feet above their heads. Alas, it had been removed, and the steps were out of reach.

"Rope?" Peter suggested.

Surprised, Woulter nodded and removed his ammunition belt. "Cartridge belts, suspenders, weapon sling, link them all together and we'll have a rope."

With two belts, webbing straps and the sling from Woulter's R-34 tied or clipped together, the Tabor's makeshift rope was ready. Swinging it gently, Woulter threw it underarm up towards the rail. It took several tries, each time it either missed or refused to snag on anything. Conscious they were fast losing the light, Woulter also felt Peter's growing apprehension. If they could not board the hauler it would be a cold, uncomfortable night spent in the ship's shadow, not to mention that the tide would be rising constantly. If Woulter remembered correctly, low and high tide was every twelve hours. 20:00 was low tide, and eight in the morning would see the entire estuary, up to the concrete ramps beneath the road, flooded, and neither wanted to spend the night hiding somewhere in the town, knowing that the cultists were nearby.

"Come on, you…" Woulter threw the rope for the umpteenth time, catching himself before he said something inappropriate.

"What about our picks?" Peter wiggled the wooden handle of his entrenching tool from its carrier. "Why don't we loop the end of the rope tightly around the handle? It'll make a, uh… toggle rope?"

"Brilliant thinking, Son," Woulter grinned, his fingers working the loop over the wooden handle and tightening it. "Let's see how this works…"

Pleased at his son's resourcefulness, Woulter heard the handle land on the metal floor with a clunk. Jerking it twice, he laughed as it firmly affixed itself between the wire rails. "I'll go first. When I'm up, throw my weapon to me."

"Can't you—"

"No sling, only got two hands, Peter."

"Oh, right," Peter stood back and watched his father climb up the side of the hull and over the rail. Once he was in place, Peter hefted the single R-34 they had between them and threw it clumsily up to Woulter. It fell short, banging loudly on the hull and landing back on the sand. The booming sound made Peter fall to his knees and clap his hands over his ears.

"It's alright, try again," Woulter beckoned encouragingly, "nearly got it then."

Just about able to make out Peter's white face now that dusk was upon them, Woulter's fingers stretched to their fullest and caught the Loranta as it sailed up to him. "Come on now, up you come!"

Slipping and sliding, Peter struggled up the hull. Most of the work Woulter did. He braced one foot on the rail and, inch by inch, dragged his son upwards. "There we go. That was a good call, Peter," Woulter ruffled his son's hair. "We'll be safe here tonight. By tomorrow the cultists will have gone and we can go find the company. How does that sound?"

"Good," was all Peter could manage, also, "my boots are killing me."

"Yeah, just rest here a moment, then we'll find somewhere dry inside."

"Maybe there's food inside the crates? Water too?"

"I expect so."

After a few minutes' rest, Woulter led the way up the stairs, his bayonetted R-34 held from the hip, and Peter close behind. Again putting on a brave face for Peter, Woulter knew that anyone with even half an ear listening would have heard the loud bang on the hull. Still he had not heard any movement on deck or any exclamation from a sentry. Maybe nobody was aboard?

Reaching the main deck, Woulter's fears were allayed when not a single soul sprang from the darkness surrounding the shipping crates. Following close behind him, Peter mumbled something.

"Ssh," Woulter hissed.

"Who's that?" Peter asked.

"Where—?" Woulter tensed and lowered his bayonet to thrust. Lunging from the shadows, figures silently mobbed the Tabors, throwing them down on their backs.

"What regiment?!" A bayonet blade was held to Woulter's neck.

"Uhh, Territorials – Tabor Territorials, S Company, Eleventh Battalion!" Woulter blurted.

"Both o' you?"

"Both of us!"

"You on our side?"

Unsure, Woulter replied immediately, "yes!"

"Where d'ye come from?"

"From 'cross the estuary!"

"From the south?"

"North. Our section got attacked by cultists."

"Apostates?"

"Yes."

The bayonet was removed. "They's a bunch o' murderin' bastards," the voice said.

"Dad?" Peter too had a bayonet to his throat.

"He your son?" The voice asked.

"Peter, I'm Woulter."

"Let Little Tabor go. Tabor, you too."

The mob dispersed, leaving Woulter and Peter lying on the deck. The one that had held the bayonet on Woulter replaced it in its sheathe. "92nd Gellen Highlanders, sorry 'bout the reception. Can't let any old mob up 'ere, cultists 'specially. Was that you banging on the hull just now?"

"Sorry, couldn't find a ladder," Woulter rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah well, can't let any old mob up 'ere," the man said, pulling Woulter to his feet. "Got the cultists and Marines on one side of the estuary, Cadians on the other, still figurin' out which one's worse."

"The latter, no question," Woulter helped Peter up and brushed him down. "Don't reckon the Cadians flay their prisoners or wear their skins." Hearing that, Peter paled.

"Whoops, careful, old man, you'll upset the wean," the Gellen, a lance corporal, laughed. "Callum Lorne, Seventh Battalion. Welcome to the Rock of The Luten."

Once introductions were over, Callum Lorne led Woulter and Peter below decks. Surprisingly the ship's generator still had power which allowed them to see somewhat, though the lightbulbs cast weak beams, leaving many areas in shadow. The Highlanders, there were only twelve of them, wore the same khaki drab as the Tabors, and had darkened their webbing with black boot polish. In lieu of hard cover, a few wore odd-looking khaki bonnets that, at first glance, resembled berets. Most intriguing was their lack of deference to ballistic armour. Perhaps they knew something Woulter and Peter did not. After all even wearing the advanced Cadian plates had not saved the other Tabors from being shot in the back; something that unnerved Woulter greatly. He hoped that Peter did not notice lest he try and emulate them.

"Park yer arses there. I'll see if I can find some scran," Lorne pointed at a vacant spot beside a shuttered porthole.

"They've got food?" Peter looked up hopefully when he and Woulter sat down.

"Sounds like it."

"Whatcha wearin' all that shit for?" A Highlander, wearing a bonnet and smoking a cigarette pointed at Peter's Cadian vest. "Only gonna burn more energy running 'round wearin' that."

Peter said, "they – regiment— told us to wear our vests. We got rid of ours 'cause they were rubbish. This Cadian stuff's supposed to stop rifle rounds."

Tapping ash into an adjacent cubbyhole, the Highlander shook his head and glanced at the ceiling. "We had a lad, not too much older 'an you. He wore two flak jackets, two helmets, and a pair o' armoured underwear. Got his ticket punched in the first fifteen minutes o' contact." The Highlander spat in the same area his ash lay and added, "If your time is up, your time is up."

"Don't listen, Peter. He won't be laughing when he gets a shard of shrapnel to the heart," Woulter whispered in his ear.

"Here's a tip, you can sort the listeners and the non-listeners into two piles. One pile's filled with dead men, the other's alive. Listen to people who know!" The Highlander tapped his fist against his skull, "it'll help you keep this intact for longer. It's your 'ead, pal, keep it."

Perturbed by the Highlander's blunt nature, Peter put his helmet back on and wriggled into a ball, resting his head on his infantry pack. When Lorne returned with compo, Peter was asleep.

"Quite a young fella, your boy," Lorne said, offering Woulter some dry biscuits.

"Fifteen," Woulter took the handful of biscuits and munched slowly.

"You?"

"Thirty-six."

"Old man."

Woulter did not disagree. None of the Highlanders looked over thirty. He, in contrast, was an elderly reservist to them, and Woulter imagined they saw him as a soon-to-be liability. Thinking quickly, Woulter opened his mouth and spoke before Lorne could ask him any questions he might not want to answer. "Didn't know Highlanders were in this AO, are you supposed to be here?"

"We're right where we're supposed to be, yeah, that's the entire regiment mind you, and look how many made it to the north bank o' the Luten. There's bloody traffic jams stretchin' miles and miles all the way back to our LZs. Fuckin' logistical nightmare! We were movin' cross-country for the most part 'cause bloody Marine traffic got priority on usin' the roads. We weren't about to argue with those clanking bastards I tell ye. Most us lads can do is keep our heads down an' hope it ain't our turn to be driven in front of those bloody armoured Bolter-wielding wankers as human shields."

"It isn't the Marines we're worrying about though, is it?" Woulter said, brushing away crumbs from where they had become stuck to the coarse hairs of his battledress.

"Slippery bastards," Lorne grimaced.

"Is that how you ended up here?"

"Aye, town's crawlin' with 'em."

"We never even saw them," Woulter felt an icy fist grip his heart and squeeze it tightly at the memory of the sudden terror and the desperate flight. "At least not the ones that were shooting at us. I was scared then, for myself and Peter. That we could do nothing but run helplessly… we weren't soldiers, we were prey."

"Ain't no shame in running. Only outcome was you died or you lived, and you lived, you and yer boy."

"Are you saying it wasn't wrong to run?"

"I'm sayin', get over it. Get over it fast 'cause they're not yesterday's business, and won't be 'til all of us are dead. You and the wean can stay wi' us 'til tomorrow. We're movin' out at 0700."

Dismayed at the Highlander's ignorance of the tide times, Woulter interjected, "high tide's at 0800, the estuary will be flooded."

"Tide changes every six hours," Lorne said mildly.

"Twelve hours. Low tide wasn't that long ago."

"Bollocks, high tide's gonna be at two in the morning."

"You Navy?"

"Nah, you?"

"No. I'm fairly certain that low and high tide are every twelve hours; I saw a chart."

At that, Lorne's face went blank. "Well good job us lot ain't bloody sailors eh?"

"Heh, yeah…"

Lorne rubbed the fog from the face of his chrono and examined the numerals. "Time's about four minutes past eight. That's low tide, ye say?"

"Should be."

"Right, I gotta go talk to the lads. Keep the biscuits!"

Safety was not a permanent institute, Woulter knew, even moreso on Cadia, which was technically an enemy-held stronghold. Throughout the night eerie noises, the sounds of the grander scale engagements happening far away, whispered through tiny cracks in the ship's superstructure. The threat of the rising ocean occupied the forefront of Woulter's mind, everything else, the cultists, the big battles that were occurring elsewhere, were irrelevant.

* * *

Peter slept soundly. Woulter ensured he really was asleep then pulled his greatcoat over his body armour. Nature called. Not wishing to blunder loudly around the semi-dark ship in search of a latrine, Woulter instead took the gangway upwards and came out on deck. Cadia's moons were out, casting reflected light across the estuary. The night sky was lit up to the east by flashes and accompanying thumps of big guns, the reminder that the war still raged, however beautiful the stars and nearby nebulas were.

The single lookout the Highlanders posted, swathed in his greatcoat with an upturned collar, turned and squinted hard at Woulter. "You that Tabor fella?"

"I am," Woulter nodded.

"No sense being up here freezin' yer arse off. Be away wi' ye."

"Latrine."

"Filled to the brim. No flushin' water so we can't get rid o' it. Let loose over the side, just be quick or your cock'll freeze."

"And if I have to shit?"

"You wanna shit, debus and dig a hole somewhere out there," the Highlander stooped and picked up a rolled up rope ladder that was pegged to the ship's rail. "Don't be alarmed if ye find ye got company out there," he said, throwing the ladder over the side.

"What d'you mean?" Woulter asked uneasily.

"Tide's comin' in."

"So?"

The Highlander looked at him blankly, "dead bodies get washed ashore, that's how we tell if the tide's comin' in or not."

 _Marvellous_ , Woulter thought as he clambered unsteadily down to the sand. "Dead bodies from where?"

"Ssh," the Highlander hissed. "Sound carries over open ground."

Feeling the hard sand under his feet, Woulter tried buttoning his greatcoat but found the bulk of his Cadian vest prevented the buttons from reaching the holes. Tilting his head down in the cold, Woulter moved a short distance away from the ship and dug a crude hole in the sand with his boot heel. The highlander had not been wrong in his assumption, Woulter realised as he squatted with his bare buttocks in the winds. Odd black lumps, soaking wet and with a stiffness only dead bodies carried, were flowing up through the deeper channels with the water and being deposited on the sand. Too curious for his own good and, in his opinion, voiding all common sense, Woulter finished up and then went to get a closer look.

It may have been the lack of light or Woulter's own tiredness, but he swore the things he found were not human. Whatever had been at the bodies, out in the Caducades Sea, had picked the soft parts clean, leaving hunks of meat barely attached to the bones and pale, deathly grey skin that shone in the moonlight. And the smell, the mix of saltwater and vomit-inducing gases which slowly built up inside corpses until they burst from pressure, it was enough to make Woulter gag. Oblivious to his boots soaking through, Woulter walked along the lip of a deep channel that was already filling with sea water. To his left was the port, to his right, the hauler, and somewhere beyond that, Cadia Secundus. Might the south offer greater security than the north? The cultists surely would not have managed to cross the estuary at low tide, at least not without the Highlanders becoming aware. _A literal crossroads, funny how_ _there are no roads involved; only the points of the compass,_ Woulter thought.

Unexpectedly his foot brushed a hand belonging to a body that lay face-up and half submerged in the river. Pulling it back sharply, Woulter made to step around. A strange detail in that particular corpse drew him back. Wary of laying hands on the dead, Woulter gingerly touched the outstretched hand with the toecap of his boot, expecting to be met with stiffness. To his astonishment the fingers moved quite willingly; rigor mortis had not set his fingers beneath the collar of the not-quite-dead body, Woulter probed for Id tags, grunting as his fingers brushed the wet skin on the neck. Nothing, just a cord attached to a peculiar little gem. _What are you then?_ Pocketing the gem, Woulter placed a hand on the man's forehead and raised his head out of the sand. With one side of the face encrusted in dirt it was impossible to discern the person's identity. All Woulter could see was this person had long, dark hair and slender wrists, making him, in fact, a her. Baffled, Woulter sat back on his haunches and cast about himself, wondering what to do with the mysterious woman. His wife would've known exactly what to do next, her firm moral compass had spurred her to assist any living beings who were in distress. Woulter wished he had inherited it from her, the love for all things living. His head told him to abandon the stranger in the night, for he did not know how dangerous she was, if she was Cadian; therefore enemy. Peter and the Highlanders too would not take kindly to him dragging an unconscious woman aboard, who would undoubtedly, if she awoke, present another mouth to feed. And besides, Woulter's first duty was his and Peter's safety, no-one else mattered. Turning his back on the woman, Woulter meandered in the direction of the hauler, then stopped and half-heartedly looked back. If he had put his foot down a few inches further on, he would have simply walked on, none the wiser, and by thunder he wished he had. Sighing through his teeth, Woulter squatted and glanced up at the stars. _Was this meant to happen?_ _Was I supposed to find this person?_ "And what if I walk away?" he said to himself. "Just forget."

But he could not forget. The woman would be there throughout the night, lingering on his mind as he tried to banish her face. Come morning the tide would have taken her, and she would be swept out to sea to suffer the same fate as the others. Groaning, Woulter pushed his helmet up his forehead and rubbed his tired eyes. Still his head said to flee, flee and forget. In opposition to that, Woulter's heart compelled him to offer the same comforting hand his wife would have. A caring soul, so out of place in war, was dangerous, but right then, Woulter deemed it appropriate. Slapping his hands on the sand, Woulter spat, and returned to where the woman lay.

The Highlander gawked at the body Woulter carried over his shoulder as he struggled back over the rail. "Who the fuck's this then?"

"Help me," Woulter grunted. The woman, though light enough to be slung over one shoulder, was still an effort to bring up the ladder, which Woulter had had to scale one-handed. Relieved to have her taken off him, Woulter slumped down on the deck and rested his head against the rail.

"Y'aven't gone and only found a lass…" the Highlander lifted the woman's head up by the bun and wiped muck from her face with his sleeve. "Where the…?"

"Get what's-his-name… Lorne," Woulter pointed vaguely, too winded to explain properly.

Swearing plentifully under his breath, the Highlander scooted off to fetch the others. Very soon Callum Lorne and four or five other Highlanders were gathered around in a ring, ogling the woman.

"She's dead," someone said. "Gotta be."

"Whatcha bring a dead bitch aboard for?"

"Ain't no dead body as floppy as that, look! No rigor." A Highlander reached down and shook her arm. Seeing the wrist flop about changed everyone's mind.

"These real?" Another Highlander stooped and laid his hands on her breasts. "Can't 'member the last time I even saw a woman."

"Oi, lay off her!" Lorne slapped the man's arm. "We're Gellens. We don't disrespect women; you of all should know that." Turning to Woulter, Lorne pointed at the woman, "where d'ye find her?"

"Out there, just lying beneath a sandbar, I honestly thought she was dead like the others."

Staring at him for a second, Lorne spoke to the gathered Highlanders, "Borens set the Rekyl up on deck coverin' the north flank."

"Aye, corp," Borens replied.

"Two more guys on the fore and aft deck respectively, keep alert. Draw lots for stag, every four hours turn over. Let's get this lass inside."

Later, in the warmth below decks, Lorne and Woulter made an alarming discovery when they laid the woman out on a table underneath a ceiling light in an unoccupied hold. Nothing odd was made of her at first. Her dark clothing was soaked through and bore no recognisable insignia. She carried no weapons other than an ornate knife made from a strange bonelike material, and an automatic pistol in a flap holster at her waist. Putting these to one side, Woulter reached up, steadying the gently swinging lamp, and studied her face. It was quite beautiful, with a strong nose and chin, even heavily dirtied, pale, and stained with blood from dozens of little cuts. Underneath that, faint scars criss-crossed her brow and cheeks, a combat veteran, though she wore no battledress Woulter recognised. Tilting the lamp further upwards he followed two arrow-straight cuts, parallel to one another, along her cheek which ended at her ear. _Oh sweet mercy…_ Woulter brushed damp hair away from the ear to reveal the slight point where it should have been rounded.

"Shit it…" Lorne, aghast, bent low and scrutinised what Woulter had discovered. "Fuck, that ain't human," he jabbed a finger, scared suddenly.

"What?" Another Highlander, slouching on guard nearby, stumbled as he rushed over to look.

"It's a bloody Stickie!" Lorne pushed Woulter away. "Careful, it's gonna bewitch us if we let it speak."

"She's unconscious, she can't do anything," Woulter argued.

"Oh my…" the other Highlander bounced from toe to toe, unsure of what to say.

"Right, dump it over the side, let's gets rid of it before it gives us trouble."

"Before we dump anything..." Woulter tried a new tactic. "Let's see what she knows, see if she's got any useful gen on her. This one might be a mercenary, an advisor to one of the Chaos regiments. She probably ended up in the river during an assault across one of the bridges up the Luten. If so then we could use her…"

"Nah, yer bonkers, mate."

"Yeah, fallen for the looks have you?" Lorne tutted. "What they look like on the outside's a helluva lot different to what they are inside. Can't trust anything that spews outta their trap."

"Keep her for now. If she has nothing, bin her. Only give her a chance to speak," Woulter said delicately. "She might be useful in the long run."

"I dunno, Corp, the Tabor ain't wrong."

"We should put this thing down before it wakes up and kills us. I'm not gonna take that risk," Lorne said.

"This thing…" Woulter gestured at her stomach where something had torn through the material. "Has a chest wound, I doubt she's in any condition to give us trouble. What she needs is aid."

"Mmm-hmm, right, say this Stickie wakes up and you're best friends, then what? It means we've gotta feed it, protect it, PW status; all that. We got no room for prisoners."

"We might not have to take her prisoner then, just bring her up to speed—"

"Oh, tell her that there's only a dozen of us hidin' on this boat so she can get word to her friends?"

"Friends? Look, tell me what you see," Woulter gestured at the Stickie as a whole. "What's missing from her that should be there?"

"Salt, a lack o' salt in her hair, her clothes, what of it?"

"Exactly, she wasn't washed ashore from the Caduceus, she came down the Luten. And what's up the river? Out lot. Now I know it's a toss-up between her being on the Cadian side, or our side, but I sincerely doubt the Imperials would want a xeno fighting for them, so it leaves our mob. Trust me, this one is an ally."

Resigned, Lorne shook his head derisively. "You want her? She's yours. But you treat her, you feed her, you clothe her. And when she stabs us in the back, you'll be the one disposing of her. Just, I don't want any o' my lads wasted for it, 'cause if they get binned, you two'll be sharing graves; I'll toss ye wean in as well. You'll make a nice family." With that, Lorne stepped out.

"Scissors?" Woulter asked the other Highlander who looked to be still working over the shock of seeing a Stickie in the flesh.

"Uh?" He snapped out of his daze, and fumbled with the flaps of his breast pockets.

"I need scissors, something sharp to cut away the fabric around the wound, do you have a pair?"

"Uhh, got a bayonet," he shrugged.

"A cutting utensil, something to cut with!" Woulter emphasised.

"You qualified to do something like this?" The Highlander asked as he delved into lockers ringing the hold.

"You?" Woulter examined the wound for signs of infection, any dirt or other contaminating substances that might have got inside.

"Pfft, not me, mate. Can just about put a plaster on."

"Need more than a few plasters…" Woulter said internally. "Needle and thread," he said aloud.

"What for?"

"Stitches."

"Tell ye what I 'ave got," the Highlander, abandoning his search through the lockers, instead came over and put a small, transparent bottle on the table. "This'll help seal the wound."

"What is it?" Woulter's eyes narrowed as he tried to focus on the tiny writing on the label.

"Some sorta adhesive, seals wounds but only temporarily. In theory it should be long enough for the patient to be medevac'd out the bondo and onto a table for surgery."

"Right, I still need those scissors though," Woulter unscrewed the cap and pressed the nozzle. It emitted a soft spray that smelt strongly. "Thank you for that, uh…"

"Tsak, Donal Tsak," the Highlander said quickly.

"Right, Tsak, scissors!" Woulter clapped his hands.

"Gloves, plastic gloves," Tsak came out with a pair of thin gloves that he had found in a medical kit.

"Anything else in there?"

"Nothin', unless you were planning on putting the Stickie back together wi' bandages."

Tsak continued to overturn lockers and ransacked chests. Woulter meanwhile monitored the Stickie's pulse, which was unnervingly fast. For someone that looked so human it came as a surprise to discover that.

"Scissors," Tsak waved a pair of scissors he had come up with after digging deep inside a chest. "The owners left in such a hurry there was still food on the table when we got here."

"Where's all that now then?" Woulter gave him a knowing look, accepting the scissors and setting about cutting away the fabric around the wound.

"We ate it—"

"Rhetorical question."

"Uh?"

"Wasn't expecting an answer."

"You'll want 'em from her though, won't you?" Tsak steadied the lamp above the table.

"Might not even speak gothic."

"If she don't, then what, throw her over the side?"

Woulter glanced across at Tsak and raised his eyebrows, "sounds easy, doesn't it? Just a little push and she's gone forever. Would you do it if Corporal Lorne told you to?"

"Erm…" Tsak, a worried look passing across his face, shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably.

"No, you've seen her face now, you'll remember her," Woulter said matter-of-factly, uncapping the sealant and aiming it at the Stickie's pale, white skin around the bloody gash. "If I had stepped a few inches to the side, put my foot down differently, I would have missed her, and she would have remained out there to die. But no, I saw her face, and now I am providing her with aid, the same I would do for Peter, or you, if you were in her position."

"Nice ideals, but what happens when she wakes up and discovers present company?"

"Then we must do our duty." Woulter's blood-slicked gloves finished sealing the wound and pressed it together tightly. "If it comes to us or her, who will it be?"

"This ain't rhetorical, is it?"

Woulter smiled, "hmph, no."

"Us."

"Good lad," Woulter nodded agreeably. Tugging off the plastic gloves he felt for the Stickie's pulse and, satisfied with the crude surgery – if it could even be called that – he requested that Donal Tsak watch the Stickie for a short while.

Left alone with the xeno, Tsak cursed his fortune. As if the threat of the cultists wasn't enough, now he was alone with a Stickie of all creatures. He knew little of them save that they were very tall bipeds who resembled humans at a glance, not counting their pointed ears and unnaturally thin appendages. The unconscious form the Tabor had brought aboard had not struck him as anything out of the ordinary. Tsak was baffled when the Tabor had revealed the woman's pointed ears, and in doing so, her species. It was her human face that disturbed him most; there was nothing to indicate that she was indeed a xeno. Frightened at the revelation, Tsak's mind slipped into denial. There was no way a xeno of a completely alien species – an enemy race – could pass so close to being human. It was wrong. The thing was a freak to be viewed only from the end, and safety, of a warm rifle barrel fitted with a bloodied knife bayonet. Semi-consciously Tsak felt the handle of his eight-inch bayonet that would usually be affixed over the muzzle of his IM .338 rifle. A rustle behind his back kept the blade in its sheathe. Thinking the Tabor had returned, Tsak said, turning around, "you tell Corp about—" Breaking off mid-sentence, Tsak's blood froze. The Stickie had disappeared. Paralysed with indecision, Tsak slowly bent down and peered underneath the table, his buttocks clenching in anticipation. The image of the wet, wild Stickie leaping out at him from the shadows turned his legs to jelly. "Corp?" Tsak trembled, his stare fixed on the gently swinging lamp above the, now bare, table.

The coarse wool of Woulter's greatcoat itched Peter's neck incessantly, rousing him from fitful slumber. Awaking in the dark, Peter shrugged off his suspenders and divested himself of his heavy web gear that had left nasty red welts on his shoulders, if their soreness was anything to go by. Rubbing his eyes, Peter blinked slowly. In contrast to before he had fallen asleep, the hold he had slept in was now empty. The bonnet-wearing Highlanders had upped and vanished.

"Dad?" Peter whispered, carefully picking his way across piles of rope and crates covered with tarpaulin to an open doorway. Over the faraway roar of the rising tide, the groan of the ship's superstructure, with the rushing wind blowing in from the seas, echoed throughout the holds. Lifting his boot to step through the gap, Peter heard a rustle of damp clothing and paused, confused and nursing a growing fear. Had the cultists swum across the estuary and pried their way into the ship? The thought turned his bowels to water. Now alone and without his father to protect him, Peter felt a compelling urge to lie down and curl up into a ball. "Help…" he whimpered.

From the darkness materialised an imposing figure who grabbed Peter from behind in a tight hold. Trying to draw breath to scream, Peter's eyes widened in terror as he was physically lifted off his feet and carried backwards. A hand pressed firmly over his mouth, the other held a pair of scissors, the blades of which were pressed against the side of his neck.

"Peter?" A voice called from the next hold.

"Dad!" Peter wanted to wail.

"Peter?" The frantic tone betrayed great concern. Appearing in the doorway, Woulter saw the restrained Peter and raised both hands, putting on a calm face. "Hello, my name is Woulter, what is yours?" Peter was dragged back another pace, the blades digging deeper into his neck. He desperately wanted to shout for help. "The boy you have in your grasp, he is fifteen, he is not a threat to you. He is my son." Peter heard a small but sharp intake of breath from his captor. It tickled his ear. Woulter continued, pacing forwards slowly, "you would not harm a child in front of his parent, would you? You are a xeno, but you are a parent too, yes? What would you do if your children were held against their will by an enemy? You wouldn't see them harmed, for the pain would be immense and it would hurt you deeper than any weapon could. Please, I'm begging you, let my son go. Spare him."

Nicked by the blades, Peter felt a tiny trickle of blood run down his neck. Closing his streaming eyes he waited for the sharp pain that would shortly be followed by blackness. The hands restraining him dropped him back on the deck. Gasping in distress, Peter rushed to his father and flung himself into his arms. Soothing him quietly, Woulter discretely wiped his eyes. The xeno, her face partially hidden beneath damp strands of hair, let the scissors go. They fell to the deck with a loud clatter. Resting a hand on her belly she staggered backwards, crashing into a stack of boxes, scattering them across the deck. Still tightly embracing the visibly distraught Peter, Woulter watched the xeno as she sat with her back to a tarpaulin, clutching the wound in her chest, her head lolling on her shoulder.

Later, in the early hours of the morning, Peter, sitting close to Woulter spoke for the first time since his encounter with the xeno. "Why did you give her your greatcoat, Dad?" The xeno had offered no resistance when the Highlanders had tied up her hands with rope and then fastened that to a rail. She had said nothing despite the fact that she was always awake. Woulter had seen her shivering in her sand-soiled, sodden clothing, and had gone and draped his own greatcoat over her shoulders. "Your name, can you tell me your name?" He had asked, to no reply. "You can understand me, else why did you let my son go?" That too went unanswered. The xeno kept staring, with a pair of strange golden eyes, at the deck.

"Son, she may be a xeno, but I reckon she has family too, just like us. And I don't want to see any more orphans, or fatherless or motherless children made by this war," Woulter said solemnly. "Just remember that your enemy are real people. Don't take pleasure in the taking of a life, human or otherwise, for there are consequences. Some of them you will leave behind, some you will carry with you to your dying day."

"Have you ever killed anyone, Dad?"

"…No," Woulter hesitated briefly. That secret he had long kept hidden from Peter, and it pained him to do so.

"I want to leave."

"The tide's coming in, Peter, we can't leave. I don't fancy swimming in all this gear."

"When we do… is that xeno coming with us?"

"As a prisoner of war we are duty-bound to provide her with aid until – if – she dies."

"She frightens me. She has a human face. How can she have a human face when she is enemy?"

"I don't know, Son. She's not talking."

Peter stared at the xeno. It took him a little while to realise but a single gold eye was watching him from through locks of matted hair. Under her wary gaze, Peter squirmed uncomfortably, turning up the collar of his battledress and twisting away from those scary eyes. He tried to sleep, tried his very hardest, but the alien presence on the opposite side of the hold prevented him from dropping off. He could not shake off the feeling of those hard, cruel hands that had held his helpless form in their grasp, and the cowardly pants-wetting nature that had taken ahold of him then.


	16. Chapter 15

**Cargo Hauler 'Rock of the Luten', 05:31**

"Peter." Woulter's hand was on Peter's shoulder, gently shaking him awake. It was dark still. The only noticeable difference was the distant rumbling that sounded like thunder; to Peter's ears it did anyway. As well, the lapping of the risen water against the hull reminded Peter that they were now trapped in the middle of the open estuary, at the prey of those on both sides of the river, and in the air.

"What time is it? It's dark still." Tightening his collar Peter wormed his aching body out of the small nest he had made.

"It's going to get a lot darker soon, son," Woulter said, helping Peter rise to his feet.

"That – that alien…" Peter peered past his father's shoulder then quickly hid behind it when he saw the xeno's sleeping form.

"Sleeping, I hope," Woulter guided him away and out of the hold.

"Don't let her hurt me." Peter kept glancing over his shoulder, back down the stairs, afraid the xeno was stalking them.

"No, Peter. I doubt she would risk hurt to you, now she knows you are my son."

"…How?"

"I think she understood me, else why did she let you go?"

"Isn't the only good xeno a dead xeno…?" Peter said slowly.

"Yes, Peter."

All twelve Highlanders were on deck. Their gazes were drawn to the immense spectacle that was happening around the headland, on the west coast of Cadia Secundus. Flashes, one after the other, some occurring in unison, told of a great bombardment of Kasr Hollen. Faraway searchlights probed the sky, picking out swarms bombers as they droned in from the Caduceus Sea. The tiny black specks kept formation despite being engaged by both anti-air batteries and swooping fighters, the latter pouncing from the high cloud bank above. Awed by the lightshow, the Highlanders and the Tabors watched tiny pinpricks of flame light the night sky up. Even separated by land and sea, the tremors still found their way into the mens' hearts, shaking them. Peter could not imagine what it was like in the midst of the terror of the night raid, simply standing at a safe distance as a spectator was frightening enough. To be there would be unimaginable.

It went on. The bombers made their passes and retreated into the clouds. The bombardment from unseen guns continued tirelessly. _They must have levelled every building in the city!_ Peter pictured a ghastly scene of flattened hab-blocks, building-sized craters, fires burning down entire streets, and blackened skeletons, the people they were before vaporised by the terrible heat. What means of defence the Cadians had in their fortified city must have been crushed under the weight of all those explosives raining down from above. Surely the Cadians would see sense and surrender to save themselves, what else could they do?

Callum Lorne and the other Gellens slowly began to lose interest. Certainly, one could only observe the effects of a sustained bombardment – that was mostly out of sight at that – for so long until it grew tiresome. Come the grey light of dawn, and the pinkish tinge in the sky, shells were still landing in and around Kasr Hollen. A great column of black smoke, skewed in the wind, rose high into the sky. Lorne leant over the side rail of the hauler and looked down grimly at the murky water that now flowed around the ship. Woulter, Peter hovering behind him, stepped up beside Lorne. "Don't suppose this thing is capable of sailing? The hull looked intact yesterday."

"We're beached solid," Lorne rubbed his chilly hands together. "Take a fleet o' tugs to haul us off this sand and back out into the channels."

"Oh," Woulter replied shortly. He knew full well the ship was permanently grounded, and wondered why he had even bothered asking. Perhaps it was for Peter's sake more than his.

"Aah, come tonight we'll be off that way," Lorne pointed away across the estuary, to the south bank. "My guess is that they've launched an assault on that Kasr, seaborne and land invasion, hittin' 'em from both sides; should be mopped up by tomorrow if they send in the Marines."

"Last fuckin' mob we want to run into though," Tsak muttered. "They'd just as soon shoot us than the enemy. Worse 'an the cultists."

At the mention of the cultists, Woulter cast a glance over his shoulder at the north bank of the river. The cultists had set fire to the harbour during the night, putting anything and everything to the torch. From the demolished state of the loading cranes and the collapsed moles, their numbers were far greater than either the Tabors or the Highlanders had imagined. Even from across the water, the huge extent of the destruction was horribly apparent.

Lorne noticed Woulter's concern. "Town's a burning pit, now the cultists got a free reign to cause chaos. Still, we're as close as we wanna get. If you wanna try headin' north, back to Secundus, then east along the coast road…"

"South's safer," Woulter said mechanically. The Cadians he would face any day over the savages whom he had little doubts were prowling the streets hungrily now.

"Where's that xeno bitch at then?" A nearby Highlander asked.

"Down below, sleeping," Woulter said levelly.

"What, alone?" The Highlander said, alarmed. Tsak and the others stirred uncomfortably.

"Bound her hands, didn't ye?" Lorne stepped away from the rail and folded his arms, suddenly wary.

"Yes, she's sleeping," Woulter looked between Lorne, Tsak, and the Highlanders, most of them appearing to have dark thoughts concerning the prisoner. "I fished her out of the drink last night. I don't think she's in any condition to cause trouble…"

"Made trouble for the wean, didn't she?" Lorne pointed out. "Not takin' any chances wi' her. Tonight we're leavin' her here. She'll slip outta those bonds quick enough and make herself scarce. If she follows us we'll zip her good an' proper. Leave her for the worms."

"Hear-hear," the Highlanders agreed wholeheartedly. Perturbed by the unanimous decision, Woulter was shocked to see even Peter looked to be in support of them. _What would your mother think?_ He was on the verge of saying aloud. A xeno she may be but she was also a prisoner of war, and there were rules concerning their treatment.

"Y'outvoted, old man," Lorne shrugged. "The xeno ain't my problem, these lads are, if you wanna take her wi' ye, fine, but yer not comin' with us; it's your choice."

Peter was indifferent, only wanting to follow his fathers' lead and leave the decisions to him. "Can we go below now? It's freezing up here."

Leading Peter below once more, Woulter stopped mid-flight and turned to look up at his son. "Your mother always said mercy was a virtue, and should be granted to all no matter their race or their beliefs. What would you do with the xeno?"

Biting his lip, Peter looked down at his mucky boots. "My feet are sore," he mumbled.

"I'll look at your feet when we're below. But what do you think should be done with the xeno."

"Uhh, well what the Highlanders said sounded best," Peter said tentatively. "That lance corporal's got his head screwed on properly, he knows what's up."

"And…"

"The sooner we leave this boat, the better. I don't like staying here."

"I would rather you did not try and emulate those men," Woulter said sternly, taking Peter by the shoulder. "They are reckless and overconfident."

"Why?"

"This," Woulter tapped Peter's ballistic vest, "you don't see them wearing proper protection in the work environment, do you?" Gripping the back of Peter's neck, Woulter smiled.

The xeno was in the same place as she had been before, covered up with Woulter's greatcoat. A curious Peter wondered aloud why his father had taken him back to the same hold, where there were many others not taken up by cargo crates. Giving his son a look, Woulter helped him untie his laces and pulled his boots off one by one. Like with their battledress, the socks they wore were made of coarse wool that irritated skin and caused endless itching. Underneath, the red, raw skin was marked with blisters on the sides of the feet and on the heels where the leather had rubbed. It did not help that the black hobnailed boots were slightly too large for Peter's feet. It was also the first time in nine days that he had the chance to remove them.

"Nasty," Woulter tutted.

"Do you have anything for them?" Peter asked worriedly, wincing at the pale, swollen circles of skin.

"I'm afraid not, Son," Woulter took one of the blistered feet and examined it.

"How can I…?"

"Well, first thing to do is not touch them. But most importantly, don't pop them. They'll go away on their own."

"What if I need to run?"

"Then you'll have to run, just like yesterday," Woulter said, pulling the wool socks back over Peter's feet. "If you ever see anyone in a strange uniform, run, run and I will find you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Dad," Peter nodded.

"That's it. When in doubt, run."

"Dad…" Peter change the subject abruptly. "Why did you give that Stickie your greatcoat?"

"For warmth, Son," Woulter glanced back at the Stickie. "The xeno might be suffering from exposure, all those nasty things you catch if you stay outside for too long. Can't get her out of those wet clothes, nothing to give her in return; just my greatcoat."

"What Lorne and the others said…"

"Pay no attention."

"But they—" Peter broke off mid-sentence. The Stickie was shifting underneath Woulter's greatcoat. "Dad, the xeno…"

Shushing his son, Woulter stepped over to the Stickie cautiously, keeping a hand on his sheathed bayonet as he knelt beside her. "Your name. Can you tell me your name?"

The Stickie shivered. Clumps of damp dirty hair hung down her face. Under her brows, a pair of gold eyes, glassy, dull, stared through the deck into nothingness. If she really had understood Woulter before, now she did not. Or was it shock, and numbness from her journey downriver?

"What's wrong with her?" Peter, curious about the xeno's condition, asked. "Does she understand?"

"I think so," Woulter hazarded a guess. Truth be told there was no certainty of whether his words had reached out to her. In greater likelihood, it may have been his body language and tone that had bridged the gap between them.

"Was she running from something?"

"Up the river? Who knows."

"Is she a coward?"

"Peter…"

"She doesn't speak."

"Shock, Son," Woulter rose and went back over to Peter. "Men have that soulless look in their eyes after they've been to war. And now I guess xenos get it too."

"Why does she have a human face?" Peter said suddenly.

"The same human faces those cultists had? Were you expecting a beast? I was too when they came down the street towards us. That handsome one, he took off his mask, and the face underneath was so normal, it was completely ordinary. It could have been you under that mask, Peter. That scared me."

"But you're my dad. You're not afraid of anything."

"I'd be a fool to fear nothing. We all feel it. I felt it when I saw that young mans' eyes, and the evil within them."

"How could you see…?"

"Just a gut feeling, else why did he remove his mask in the first place? He wanted us to see his face, to prey on our fear. It's what bad people do."

Shafts of grey morning light were finding their way through the tiny portholes when a Highlander rushed down into the hold. Woulter heard the banging footsteps on the narrow accessway between the holds and sprang to his feet in alarm. "They've got one o' yours!" The Highlander exclaimed, beckoning hurriedly at them to follow. The air was chillier up on deck now that the wind had picked up. The brisk sea breeze blowing in turned up the hairs on the back of Woulter's neck. For a moment he wished he had his greatcoat. Peter, also absent his greatcoat, shivered despite the layers of his woollen battledress. The twelve Highlanders were all topside as they had been before, only this time they were looking north. Gathered around a Rekyl stubber, sitting on its bipod legs on a crate, the Highlanders took turns peering at the north shore through a pair of worn binoculars.

"What are they looking at?" Peter wondered.

"Ssh," Woulter said.

"Thought the uniform looked familiar!" Callum Lorne nonchalantly pried the glasses out of the hands of another Highlander and passed it to Woulter. "Recognise 'em?"

Woulter caught his breath when he saw them through the dirty lenses. "Peter, go below," he said unconcernedly.

"Why?" Peter hovered behind him inquisitively.

"Go below, Peter."

"Ye can't protect him forever," Lorne said darkly, after Peter departed without a second glance.

"He's a child. I am not letting a child, my child, see that," Woulter thrust the glasses angrily into Lorne's chest before following Peter.

During the night, all along the waterfront, the cultists had gathered up a handful of Tabors, three of them wounded in the attack, and lashed them to crudely carved wooden platforms that were turned up on their sides and balanced against piles of dumped furniture. They were not alone. Others, Cadians, Gellen Highlanders, and men in unfamiliar uniforms were mounted upright too. Overseeing the gaudily-attire rabble was Commissar Coat and Bloody Apron who both stood on a tall pile of tables waving their arms and making grand gestures to their followers, unaware of their observers. It was only now, with the growing light, that dirty blades were unsheathed and drawn across bare chests, laying them open, spilling out blood and organs. In a cold fury, Lorne seethed at being unable to help his regimental brothers, who were amongst those the cultists were brutally torturing. Keeping his eyes glued to the glasses, he watched bitterly as two masked cultists, encouraged by the mob, clambered atop stools and ran the flats' of their blades across the bare chest of a helpless Gellen. A sharp click beside Lorne made him snap his head sideways. Borens had removed the magazine of his Rekyl and was inserting a single eight-millimetre round into the open chamber. "Borens hold your fire," Lorne growled. "That's an order."

"Fuck orders," Borens tucked the stock into his shoulder and twisted a dial to compensate for the range. "Only Gellens get to kill Gellens."

"Don't, they don't know we're here!" Lorne hissed desperately.

Borens squeezed the trigger. A sharp crack and the gun kicked back into his shoulder, spitting the single shell casing downwards onto the deck. Quickly regaining the two cultists that were setting about the Highlander with their long knives, Lorne breathed sharply when a red hole appeared in the Gellen's chest, spraying blood outwards. The man's writhing ceased abruptly as the round punched through his heart; killing him instantly. Stunned, the cultists jerked away from their, now dead, victim, and dropped their, still unblooded, knives. Mouth dry from apprehension, Lorne focused on Commissar Coat and Bloody Apron, both of whom were transfixed by the freak occurrence. It was Commissar Coat who reacted first, turning his head towards the hauler, and pointing. Opening his mouth, he shouted – his exclamation unheard by the Highlanders – and began waving his arms madly, exhorting his followers to disperse. Scattering left and right, the mob fled. As if believing they could do anything from such a distance, the Highlanders opened up with their IM rifles. The volleys of single shots, at three hundred yards against targets moving across their field of fire, were entirely pointless. None of the cultists went down, though their flight was nonetheless encouraged by the sporadic rifle fire. "Cease fire!" Lorne snarled. "HOLD YOUR FIRE!" Unheeding, the Highlanders continued to shoot at the buildings closest to the river, peppering walls and windows even after the last few stragglers had disappeared back into the town. Once the mad minute had ended, and magazines had emptied, only then did the Highlanders cease fire.

"Ye know what you've done?" Lorne said flatly to Borens and the rest.

"We just saved a brother from a long and painful death," Borens retorted, slotting a fresh load into his Rekyl. "He was too good for the knife. He deserved a soldier's death, and we gave him one."

"They're onto us now. Come tonight they're gonna be back. And we ain't gonna scare 'em off again." Lorne peered over the parapet and down at the water. "Soon as this water gets shallow enough, they'll come. You've fucked us."

"We've got height, they've got no cover. If they come, we'll zip 'em until there ain't no more of 'em left," Borens said.

"How're you for ammo?" Tsak asked, "'cause I'm down to three mags plus a couple o' spare rounds."

"Better pray they can't swim. Come night it isn't gonna matter anyway."

"I hope you all understand what you've done," Woulter had returned. He did not look pleased. With grave eyes he regarded the young Highlanders. "You young men, full of fight, fully prepared to stand here against the odds—"

"We're gon' go get 'em. Cut 'em down and bring 'em back here," a Highlander gestured with his rifle. "We don't leave any of our lot behind, right lads?"

Lorne looked darkly at the man, but said nothing. It was Woulter who spoke, this time his tone was openly scathing. "It's a fanciful thing, isn't it? The idea that you can stand up to the enemy by yourself, spit in his face, and get away unscathed. It would take a hero to make it across the water and bring those poor souls back one by one. You can be a hero out there. We'll be back here. Well go on, cast yourself over the rail and strike out for your brothers!"

The Highlander's face fell, his mind, still caught up in the carefree insanity of the mad minute, was suddenly capable of clear thought, overriding the temptation to try and perform a selfless act of stupidity.

"There, that's it. Don't be a fool, young man, you'll live longer."

"Fool?! We're cowards if we don't try and do something!" Borens' eyes blazed. "If the old man finds out we ran out on our brothers, we'll be shot!"

"Enough!" Lorne moved inbetween them, raising his hands defensively. "As soon as the water gets low enough we make for the north bank."

Hearing this, Woulter threw his head back, rolling his eyes as he did. "If you set foot on the north bank, you'll be up on those mounts with the others. You don't have the manpower or the ammunition to rescue those men." Unknowingly emulating Lorne, Woulter peered over the side at the murky green water. "Question is how deep is the water?"

"From how far it's up the hull, it should be about three, maybe four metres deep."

"Well have you tried swimming? That's an option. Strike out for the south bank, get a head start on the cultists if they want to pursue us."

Lorne shrugged. The suggestion did not appear to go down well with the Highlanders. "We can't swim. Not with equipment. And if the south shore's still held by the Cadians then we're gonna be offerin' ourselves up to 'em on a platter. Better to walk it, keep our gear on us."

"Aye, I'm for that," Borens nodded. "Stall and retreat action, plenty o' fire and manoeuvre."

The Highlanders' newfound confidence in their corporal's decision plucked up spirits. Woulter alone still had misgivings. Staying where they were and waiting around for the cultists to come back in force violated even basic common sense. How could they not see that? Were it not for the prison they were trapped in, Woulter would have taken Peter away immediately. There was also the single debilitating fact that Peter could not swim. Woulter too was no swimmer and could barely manage to stay afloat by himself; but that was without battledress, boots and equipment. Before Peter had been born, Woulter remembered Ellen, his wife, trying vainly to teach him to swim. It was in one of the very few rivers on Tabor not polluted by filth from the hives, though it was still icy. After an exhaustive hour both were shivering from the cold and fed up of their mutual bickering. Woulter remembered it had been solved by them making love immediately afterwards, staving off the tension and giving them a laugh about it. _Was that when Peter was conceived?_ Woulter wondered. _That was seventeen years ago so no, it must have been later._ Shaking himself out of the daydream that threatened to snatch his attention, Woulter saw the Highlanders staring at him out of the corner of his eye. "Any life preservers?" He asked.

"What's a life preserver?" Tsak frowned. "Does it stop rounds?"

"Things you wear that keep you afloat on the water," Woulter said, casting about the rails for any of the special jackets. "What about any smaller lifeboats? Have you searched the ship?"

"Weren't planning on sailin' outta here," Lorne remarked casually.

"But have you searched the ship?" Woulter was on the verge of losing his patience. "Come on, you lot, with haste!"

The Highlanders looked dumbly at Woulter, silently refusing to obey him. They were waiting for Lorne to give them orders. "Alright, boys, spread out and look for… what is it we're lookin' for?"

"They're greyish squares, a bit like a flak jacket that you wear on your chest—" Woulter broke off. His poor description did not do anything to curb his rising exasperation. Every moment they delayed, the cultists gained time to reorganise. What else bothered him, it was only a little niggle however, was the presence of other regiments in the area. It was a bit of a stretch to imagine, but Woulter envisioned the cultists finding a different unit and somehow convincing them that they had been fired at from a beached ship out in the middle of the Luten Estuary. The regular outfit, if it was indeed regular, might be persuaded to head for the waterfront. Woulter pondered whether it was only he that understood the greater threat posed by such an unlikely turn of events. Mortars and artillery would be far more lethal to them than any number of knife-wielding fanatics. What was worse was the cultists might very well have assumed the unseen shots might have been fired by imperial troops, and not supposedly by their 'allies', though allies of course was stretching it. At that thought Woulter was suddenly very afraid for himself and Peter.

Staying up on deck, the Tabor was relieved to see a few of the Highlanders, returning from their forays, wearing the bulky life preservers over their tunics. Their grumblings over the weight and restriction of mobility put a brief smile on his face. Lorne had one too, though his he carried in his arms. Just why became apparent when he dumped it on Woulter. "Not for you, for the wean."

"Thank you," Woulter smiled politely and headed below to Peter. To his surprise, he found his son watching the xeno intently. "Has she said anything?" Woulter asked, sitting down beside Peter.

"No," Peter said. Clutching his knees to his chest he rocked back and forth slightly. "I said she had a human face. I didn't see her eyes."

"Curious colour," Woulter said mildly.

"No, one of them is wider than the other. The pupil is…"

"Dilated?"

"The pupil is dilated."

"This is for you," Woulter swivelled around and handed Peter the life preserver.

"What is it?"

"It will keep you floating above the water."

A look of very real fear flashed across Peter's pale face then. "I'm not – we're not going underwater are we?"

"No, there may be a chance we might have to swim away from this ship, over to the south bank of the river. You need to put this on."

"I won't go underwater though, will I?" Peter had clammed up.

"Your head will always be above the surface, Peter. And if you're holding onto me, we'll be over at the south bank in no time, besides it's not too deep." Woulter began to work the life preserver over Peter's torso, fastening it tight once his arms were through.

"What was the banging earlier?"

"Some of the cultists showed up on the waterfront. The Highlanders chased them off." Putting on a brave smile, Woulter added, "They're gone for good."

"Did you help?" Peter looked up in wonderment.

"No rifle," Woulter shook his head. "All it took was a few shots to send them scattering. They fled like the bullies and cowards they are."

"Are they cowards?"

"Who else would shoot at us whilst out backs were turned?"

Right then, above the groaning of the ship's hull, came a deep moan from above and somewhere outside. Bemused, Peter said, "is that a train?"

"Peter…" Woulter heard the growing bellow of the incoming artillery. The resulting explosion went off outside the ship. Momentarily frozen, Peter and Woulter felt the entire ship rattle as the shockwave travelled though the water and shook the hull from bows to stern. "Up on deck, quick as you can!"

"Wouldn't we be safer…?"

"Now, Peter!" Woulter grabbed his son's shoulder and hustled him along, out of the hold and up the stairway to the open accessway above. On deck they nearly collided with Gellens, all of whom had found life preservers. Lorne alone was calmly leaning against the rail, watching the great spouts of water through his glasses, even as his fellow Highlanders scurried this way and that.

"Three rounds, ranging shots," Lorne declared. Turning to address his men, he began to remove his gear. "We've got minutes before they stonk this ship. Lose your rifles and gear, tie your boots around your neck and make sure you've got socks to put on when we reach the south bank, lively now!"

"Do as the lance corporal says, Peter," Woulter hastily followed the Gellen's example, dumping his Cadian vest, cover, and heavy webbing, then helping Peter get out of his own gear. Fingers worked at belt buckles and laces feverishly as spray from the thrown-up river water doused the decks. A countdown was ticking inside Woulter's head, a mental clock between the first shell landing and the follow-up volleys. Time was running out, a fact he and everyone else were painfully aware of. Tying the laces of Peter's boots tightly together, Woulter draped them over his son's neck and hurried him across the deck to the narrow access ladder the Highlanders were already crowding. Clinging to his father, Peter narrowly avoided tripping and falling against the back of the closest Highlander when a shell, falling much closer than the others, dropped right against the opposite side of the hull. The resulting shriek of rending metal was torturous to the ears.

"Get moving, lads!" Lorne cried, holding his nose tightly before jumping down into the water. Needing no encouragement from him, the incoming artillery saw to that, the Gellens dropped into the choppy green murk.

"Come on, Little Tabor!" Donal Tsak, his head bobbing in the water, waved up to Peter.

"Go, Peter, I'll be right behind you," Woulter manoeuvred Peter down the steps. "Legs over the rail."

"I'm not going! I'm not going!" Peter wailed. His protests went unheard. The hauler was struck amidships, the detonating shell swiftly starting a fire that quickly spread. Lifting Peter up bodily, Woulter lowered him as far as he could before dropping the hapless boy into the water. Then, thrusting one leg over the rail, Woulter prepared to follow. A spear struck his heart when he remembered the imprisoned xeno left below decks. Poised half on, half off the, soon to be flaming wreck of a ship, Woulter hesitated. Down below waiting for him were Peter and Tsak, Lorne and the other Highlanders were already swimming away from the ship. Wracked with indecision, Woulter twisted to look back up the stairs. Black smoke was covering the deck, the smell already tickling his nostrils. Both Tsak and Peter were waving, shouting, begging him to leave the ship.

 _You can be a hero out there. We'll be back here_. Cursing his words, Woulter withdrew and pounded back up the stairs. Thankful he had the common sense to not remove his boots, Woulter leapt through the accessway. Burying his nose in his sleeve, Woulter saw the water reflecting off of the bulkhead during the hair-raising descent to the holds. Water was already pouring in through tears in the hull and lapped at his ankles as he scrambled through the water to where the Stickie was. When he discovered the vacant spot, and the absent prisoner, he could have kicked himself; the heroic fool.

Refusing to leave without his father, Peter felt Tsak's hand on his arm, pulling him away. Tsak's words were lost when heavy quantities of spray landed on their heads. Gasping, blinded by the water, Peter heard and felt the growing scream of the shell in his body. Doing the the only thing he could, Peter ducked underneath the surface. Kicking feebly, he was wholly unprepared for the horrific vibrations the force of the explosives sent through the water. Clapping his hands over his ears, Peter screamed, his body twisting this way and that as his insides were rattled violently. Streams of bubbles left his mouth, traveling up to the surface, where the light was slowly growing fainter and fainter. Unable to open his eyes, Peter's arms and legs flapped awkwardly, too weak to fight the weight of his boots and heavy wool uniform which were slowly dragging him down into darkness despite his buoyancy aid. A strange calmness engulfed him. His muscles relaxed, both arms and legs went limp, and his mouth opened slowly. Sleep beckoned. From nowhere a pairs of rough hands snatched him underneath the armpits. Finally plucking up the courage to open his eyes, Peter floundered as they adjusted to the odd environment. The strange green world he was sharing with his rescuer, to him a dark shape with an obscured face, was oddly mesmerising. Tilting his head up, Peter felt himself propelled back towards the light. As his head broke the surface he gulped down great lungful's of air. Water streamed from his hair, running down his face and in his eyes. The salty spray, thrown up by spouts of seawater, doused him, stinging his eyes. "Dad!" Peter gasped, choking as he got a mouthful. The hand that was holding his head above the surface kept a tight hold of his collar.

"Do not struggle!" A stranger's voice, female, shouted in Peter's ear.

"Dad!" Frightened out of his mind at the noise Peter squirmed, vainly trying to free himself from the Stickie's grip. With his eyes clamped shut from the stinging salt, Peter only succeeded in floundering helplessly.

"Kick with your legs!" The Stickie snarled, dragging Peter with her away from the burning hauler. Deprived of his sight for the entire duration of the arduous swim, Peter swept this way and that with his hands, ploughing the water for his father, to no avail. With the cacophony of the artillery dealing the death blows to the ship receding, Peter's dulled hearing returned. The splash of hands and the laboured breathing of the Stickie behind him filled his ears. Opening his eyes a crack he saw water all around with only a tall plume of black smoke giving him a vague idea where land was. Spluttering, Peter tried calling out but received another mouthful of salty water.

"Save your breath!" The Stickie jerked Peter by the collar.

Maddened at the belief that his father had abandoned him, Peter worked his legs furiously, tears brimming in his eyes. Looking over his shoulder at the xeno, he saw the hauler in the distance. Its back had been broken, both halves of it aflame. "I can't swim," he moaned. The Stickie did not reply, just pushed him onwards. Soon Peter felt soft mud underneath his bare feet, allowing him to put his weight down. They were nearing dry land. Ahead of them the Highlanders were slogging through waist-deep water on the last leg. Shivering and exhausted, Peter felt the Stickie push him ahead. He was ready to drop, and would have if not for his father's unknown whereabouts. Fearful Woulter had not been able to escape the ship Peter whirled around, searching the nearby waves for a bobbing head. "Dad?"

A heart-stopping watery explosion amongst the Highlanders, and Peter stumbled, losing his footing. "Mines!" Callum Lorne froze on the spot, peering into the water at his feet. Two of the Gellens had been killed outright, their mutilated bodies turning the nearby water red. Peter, unsuspectingly, was picked up by the Stickie and lifted out of the water. Dumping Peter behind her, the Stickie stuck out an arm protectively, keeping her body in front of his. Taking tiny steps, Peter followed in the Stickie's wake. She seemed to possess some sixth sense, allowing her to pick out a safe route through the garden of mines. Several Highlanders, tentatively probing the water around them, gaped in astonishment as the Stickie, with Peter in tow, forged a path towards the shore. Tsak was the first to latch on. Lorne, Borens, and the others fell in without question. Peter tried not to look at the widening pools of blood when he passed near the dead Highlanders. Little by little the file of dripping wet men made the Luten's south bank, and collapsed on the grey sand. Refusing to sit, what his body was yearning for, Peter's lip trembled when Woulter did not come and find him. In desperation he prepared to go back out into the estuary to find him. To his surprise the xeno was suddenly barring his way. "My dad," Peter looked up at the tall woman desperately. Without a word the xeno went back into the water, negotiating the submerged minefield, and diving downwards. Peter waited, and waited. His shivering in his soaked-through uniform he ignored, all senses were combing the waves for signs of Woulter. The salt on his skin and in his hair began to harden. His toes on both feet grew numb. What felt like hours later, a smudge appeared in the water. Recognising the pale skin of the xeno, Peter wept openly as he saw the body held in her grasp. "Dad?"

"Son…" Woulter's voice was weak as the Stickie laid him down on his back.

Pushing past her, Peter hugged his father tightly and cried into his shoulder. "I thought I'd lost you, Dad." Rubbing his son on the back, Woulter whispered soothingly to him. To one side the xeno watched with a steady gaze.

* * *

 **Kasr Kraf, Cadian Home Army General Headquarters, 13:58**

His temples were greying, Warrant Officer Class One Jarran Kell thought, shifting the iron-hard grip he had on both hands which were clasped firmly behind his back. The subject under eyes was his commanding officer, General Ursarker Edgar Creed. Both men, lifelong friends, and career military, were formally of Cadian 8th Infantry Brigade; its commanding officer and colour sergeant respectively. With the rapid succession in leadership following the massacre of the planetary governor and his staff at the fields of Tyrok, Creed and Kell were suddenly shunted into the unenviable position of lord castellan, an emergency rank equivalent to lord general, and sergeant major of the Imperial Guard; the senior appointment a non-commissioned officer could hold. Kell himself, so used to being addressed as colour sergeant, his longest serving rank, was booted up to warrant officer class one and bestowed with the appointment so many career NCOs coveted. Though technically he held the rank of WO, the senior one at that, he would now be referred to respectfully by all, as sergeant major, much to his displeasure. Creed, in jarring contrast to Kell, had taken a firm hold of the reins and assumed the mantle of lord castellan with his customary pragmatism and aggressiveness. Kell, never far from his commanding officer's side, was present when the newly promoted general had given his acceptance speech to the handful of surviving army group, corps, and divisional commanders. Damned if it wasn't a stirring sight being in the man's presence, where his magnetism and charisma had snapped up the attention of everyone in the room. Never one for long-winded speeches, Creed had rounded off with a real gem. Kell, his tightly-guarded expression never faltering, had felt his heart warm when he heard Creed say, "I have nothing to offer you but blood, toil, tears, and sweat. Thank you, gentlemen."

It was now day twenty-nine of the invasion, four weeks since the implacable hordes of Chaos had defiled Cadia's soil with their presence, and Kell was sensing a gradual shift on the playing board. With the seaborne invasion of Kasr Hollen far to the west two weeks' previously, and the subsequent razing of the city, the tide was slowly turning in the enemy's favour. From the great glowing holographic map showing the ongoing battle at the strategic level Creed was poring over, Kell could see the continent of Cadia Secundus. It was surrounded on all points of the compass.

To the north and north-east, across the Luten, the enemy prowled the banks looking for bridging and fording points. The retreating Cadian brigades had blown almost every single road and rail bridge spanning the Luten, leaving not one intact that would support Chaos tanks or any vehicles heavier than an unarmoured car. With only infantry able to cross the footbridges safely, they were easy prey for the dug-in Cadians. Though stalled, Kell understood that they would assault successfully across at one point or another, opening the way for armoured units to exploit the gains. His fears were that the vile Chaos overlords would work out just how thinly stretched the elements of I Corps were along the south bank of the river, which travelled in a shallow easterly curve many kilometres inland from the Luten Estuary, all the way to Kasr Kraf where it turned sharply southwards, cutting through the city and separating it into two halves, before aiming eastwards again, completing the backwards 'S' shape.

Less of a dire threat, but a threat nonetheless, was the east flank. The Kolarak Plains, similar to the Elysion Fields to the west of Kraf, was a wide, featureless steppe that stretched for hundreds of kilometres eastwards, until the land climbed higher and higher to the Gehennis Escarpment. Gehennis was made up of tall, smooth-faced mesas that rose high into the sky, their height forming deep trenches that made for natural passes. Ill tidings came from Cadian 1st Armoured Cavalry Brigade, specifically 1st Battalion, 5th Cavalry which was stationed in that area. 1/5 reported seeing silhouettes of mechanical beings, tall as mountains, standing upright on two legs, and bearing grotesque deformities and unholy effigies, blasting at the rockface to force an eventual breachpoint for the unseen evil lurking out of the defenders' sight.

Nearly one hundred kilometres south of Kasr Kraf was the bastion known as Martyr's Rampart. Normally, and this was quite irregular Kell noted, the derelict fortress was left unoccupied, but circumstances had forced it garrisoned. And that was another thing. It was not a Cadian unit that was now bolstering the mothballed defences, but a Marine company, or at least elements of one. The men – if they could be referred to as such, which Kell doubted – were Templars. Bedecked in powered armour the colour of the blackest night, and bearing their sigil of the black cross on a white cloth, the Templars stood firm under their commanding officer, Marshal Marius Almarich. Kell was also aware of the presence of other Marine elements, specifically the contingent based at Kraf Airbase. Marine Aircraft Group 15 (MAG-15), as it had been designated by Army Command, operated their own interceptors and ground attack ships, and like with their infantry counterparts, operated autonomously. Being Marines, they existed outside the traditional Guard and Navy chain of command, and as such could not, and most certainly would not take orders from even the lord castellan. Kell noted it was fortunate the Marines' mission objectives happened to include the preservation of Cadia as a fortified staging area and strongpoint of defence against the Eye of Terror, even if they were apathetic to the actual sufferings of the people there.

Lastly Kell's eyes fell on Kasr Stark. Thirty-nine kilometres west of Kasr Kraf, Stark occupied the western edges of the Elysion Fields, and so far was still standing strong in the face of nightly bombing raids. _If Stark were to fall…_ Kell mused. It would give the enemy a straight run across Elysion to the critical supply dumps and airbase outside Kraf which served as the besieged fortress' lifelines. Those stores were the very heart of the defence, and the Valkyrie Slicks of Major General Clavin Strekka's 119th Air Assault Division, the arteries pumping them out to the defenders who always seemed to be asking for more of everything. It was quite impossible to fully replenish each and every Kasr's stock of food, ammunition, and medical supplies, of which there was only a finite amount.

Dismissing the increasing pleas for material relief, Kell prevented himself from losing focus on the grand scale of things. Stoically he reminded himself that the tactical side was less important than overall strategy; the big picture. His and Creed's problems were at corps and army level now, not at brigade level with only one single, albeit large, body of men to worry about. The lives of millions of men and women now rested in Creed's hands. Kell, a firm believer in the human way of life, had the utmost faith in his general and friend, and was outwardly certain that the brilliant strategist would carry them to victory.

"And what do you think, Sarn't Major?" Creed, leaning over the map, a lit cigar clenched between his jowls, glared at Kell.

"Insurmountable odds, General, but the battle is still young," Kell replied bluntly. "Cadia stands."

"Cadia stands," the other general officers in the room echoed. All outranked Kell, though each too fully understood that he was a man to be listened to and held in the highest regard.

"Capital!" Creed nodded brusquely and jabbed his cigar at the northern flank. "Wallace, your divisions have the icing on the cake. I trust they are firmly ensconced in their trenches?"

Lieutenant General Cathker Wallace, the commander of Cadian I Corps, rubbed the mess of grey stubble that was building up underneath his chin as he pensively surveyed his mens' disposition. Wallace had three full strength divisions under his command: Cadian 3rd, 9th, and 15th, along with the tonne of second-line support elements. His problem currently was that there should have been at least eight divisions standing shoulder-to-shoulder along the bank of the Luten with dedicated, pre-sighted artillery batteries, as well as around-the-clock air cover, ready at a moment's notice to start pounding the enemy. Such was the distance he had to cover a compromise had to be made with manned firebases at intervals along the main line of resistance, from Kasr Luten to the great bend in the river before Kasr Kraf. These isolated pockets of men were all that stood between Chaos and Kasrs Jark and Luten, the latter of which faced northwards from the south bank, the former barely eight kilometres north of Kraf. Despite misgivings, Wallace accepted his orders cold-blooded, and with a firm, steely-eyed conviction. "General, let them fall on I Corps' bayonets."

Grimly, Creed continued around the corps commanders, specifying where each and every unit, down to individual battalions, was to be positioned for the upcoming general offensive. Kell noted, with some discomfort, that Creed made a declaration after the briefing had ended that he had never made before. "If it comes to one last effort, and the enemy are at the gates of this city, we shall flood the Elysion Fields and Kolarak Plains with poison gas. We can do what we like on our own soil. Good afternoon, gentlemen."

The prospect of employing chemical weapons alarmed Kell. Inside the city walls were hundreds of thousands of refugees that had fled from the various outlying systems to escape the invaders. So tightly packed were they, the Kasr could not hold them all, forcing the civilians to camp in shanty towns in the shadow of the walls and the vicinity of the airbase. Indiscriminately employing gas as a last resort weapon rubbed Kell the wrong way. Sacrifices must be made in war to ensure victory, but not in such a way that guaranteed the mass killing of innocent refugees. There must be some restraint exercised, else the Imperials would be no better than those they were fighting, and Kell still believed there was some honour in all of it, no matter how much the situation might call for the impressing of ungentlemanly tactics.

With the generals' departure, Creed and Kell were left alone. Kell was on the verge of bringing up the subject of the chemical weapons when a flustered aide appeared and snapped to attention before Creed. "I did not send for you," Creed growled.

Saluting crisply, the aide responded breathlessly, "General, sir, begging your pardon but a gentleman from the Establishment is here."

Creed's brows furrowed. He looked ready to issue a loud rebuttal, but relented. "Send him in!" He barked.

Kell's face darkened the moment a civilian in fine attire swaggered into the room. The gold letter I attached to a chain at the man's throat was the instant giveaway; as if he would have wanted it to be a secret as to his affiliation! The blue, sleeveless, double-breasted jerkin, though reeking of wealth, was crumpled, and the man's eyes were tired, though they did little to detract from his good looks. A boyish-faced charmer, Kell had the man instantly down as, a perfect military haircut too, even if he himself was not a soldier. Polished knee-length leather boots with metal toecaps completed his fanciful image. Expecting a serious, formal greeting, Kell was surprised when the man clasped his hands, rubbed them together, and smiled widely. "Good morning, General Creed! I hope your new post is treating you well."

Stubbing his cigar in a cracked ashtray at the side of the room, Creed opened a brand new box and produced two, one for him and the guest. "And you, sir, I hope your chrono continues to treat you well."

At that, the man laughed aloud. Producing a watch from his breast pocket, he flipped the lid off and checked the hands. "Dratted traffic was heavy. The common rabble is everywhere, spilling out of gutters and sewers. I don't know why you bother keeping them. Such lowborn degenerates should not be packing the streets of this fine city. Send them out into the field, I implore! Have them driven before our valiant shock troops. Let them weather the storm of fire before the Guard crushes them and the enemy with the God-Emperor's tanks."

Underneath his tightly-guarded features, Kell felt the urge to laugh at the man's audacity. It was either that or lay into him verbally for demanding the lord castellan banish those refugees and have them forcefully pressed into acting as meatshields. The way he had stated it, in such a casual manner at that, rattled even Kell. Whoever he was, this Inquisitorial acolyte had left a significant first impression.

"Thank you, General," the man accepted a cigar from Creed and sniffed it. "Sousas? Very fine. I prefer Benerials."

"Your name, sir," Creed flicked open is lighter and addressed his own cigar, before offering it to the guest.

Not acknowledging him, the man instead lit up with his own gold-plated lighter. "Osvat Radu Zeleska, sir. My own name is inconsequential. I am here on behalf of my master: Lord Torquemada Coteaz."

"I have heard of him," Creed nodded, drawing heavily at his cigar. "A most influential man; and loyal servant of the Imperium."

"Loyal. Servant. Of the. Imperium," Zeleska paced around the table with one hand held behind his back. "How do you take your tea?"

Creed opened his mouth to reply, but Zeleska swivelled to face Kell. "My good man, how does the lord castellan take his tea?"

"Sir, you do not address my sergeant major," Creed leant over the table. "You address me."

"Well give him liberty to speak then!" Zeleska emphasised. "Sergeant Major, how does the lord castellan take his tea?"

"White, two sugars," Kell's eyes were two black bullet holes.

"Outstanding!" Zeleska grinned. "The lord castellan has trained you well." Then his tone softened. Tilting his head back Zeleska looked at Kell down his nose, "make it yourself, there's a good chap."

"Thank you, Sarn't Major, that will be all," Creed said.

"Yes, sir," Kell brought his heels together loudly, about-faced, and marched from the room.

"Awful lot of stamping involved there," Zeleska remarked, making for a side counter where there were drinks. "I don't know why he could not have simply walked out quietly."

"What business does the Inquisition have on Cadia? I have a war to run, sir," Creed said, a little colder than before.

"Oh, we've barely got to know one another, General." Busying himself with the many glasses, Zeleska glanced over his shoulder at Creed. "Can two gentlemen not converse as equals over a glass of amasec whilst a war rages around them?"

"Straight, your organisation flaunts its authority wherever it goes. A man who intrudes upon a military affair, smokes the cigars, and drinks the beverages belonging to the commanding officer does not make him privy to the inner workings of an operation regardless of his connections. Nor could he possibly grasp the complexity of the situation at a glance as you have done, sir. You are not a military man; you have a marginal degree of leeway concerning the citizens of this world. Answer me, why are you here? But use small words, I am a soldier and obviously not operating on the same level of intellect as you are."

"You would like to know why I am here?" Zeleska carried a bottle and a brimming glass to the table. "I grew bored of my assignment, so I came up here to get the measure of the lord castellan." Throwing his head back, Zeleska downed the glass in one. Setting it back on the table edge, he said, "that's good stuff," before knocking the glass over. Landing on the floor, it smashed, spilling dark red liquid across the carpet. "Terrible mistake to make," he remarked, hunting for another full bottle. "I hope we understand one another, General. I will let your trained dogs perform their tricks, if you let mine do ours."

Removing the cigar from his mouth, Creed said in a low, dangerous tone, "you will be the last man standing, sir, if it comes to the end. How safe and satisfied will you feel when the final wall comes down, and all the legions of hell come for you?"

"General, there is no man I would rather share that with than you," Zeleska stuck a fresh cigar in his mouth and grinned. "It would give me no greater pleasure than to stand alongside the mighty General Creed, lord castellan of the common rabble of Cadia."

Creed said nothing when Zeleska pocketed a full packet of cigars, or when he picked up three full bottles of amasec from Creed's personal store. It was only when Zeleska was making for the door that Creed spoke. "Sir?"

"General."

Sticking his cigar between his teeth, Creed, loudly, said, "Good afternoon to you."


	17. Chapter 16

**Highway 1, 37 kilometres north of Kasr Kraf, Cadia Secundus, 11:05 (Cadian Time)**

Crammed in the troop compartment of a four-tonne Hennus, Aimo Garst felt each bump, and every little pothole in the road the truck went over. The hunched over sitting position he was being made to endure was taking a toll on his spine, he was sure of it. However unforgiving the Hennus' rock-hard suspension was, Aimo reflected that it was fortunate he had even been able to grab a seat on one of the two benches that faced inwards. Young Molke, the wetnose, had been ordered to sit on the floor amongst the others' feet, along with two of Mess Sergeant Gale's cookforce, Weld and Scurm. They may not have been the youngest, but they were the most junior. In the cooks' case, it was now the mean-faced Olen Azar who had the favour of the boss, granting him a seat with his superior on one side, and the only man of equal girth on the other, Cyrano. Larn, his head resting on his pack, slept curled-up, and out of the way.

"This is what I like about the infantry, you always know just what's going on," Kat said from behind an open newspaper.

"I found a home in the infantry," Molke said, rubbing his back from where it ached. "Least all you get out of it is a fractured spine. I'll take it over broken ankles any day."

"Like the time when you fell out of a plane with no 'chute?" Ral Bleak poked at Molke with his toe to get his attention over the noise.

"Yeah, and not even a Wounded Lion to show for it, typical Guard, only awarding it when wounded by enemy fire; my ankle was self-inflicted apparently. The jump class didn't want to have the strike against them for failing to prepare a recruit for gravchute training, so they wrote me as falling down a set of steps. That was the official story. I guess no-one would care if I told them what actually happened anyway. Once it's written, it's written."

"What time is it, Kat?" Aimo asked.

"Just gone eleven," Kat replied without even checking his chrono. Somehow he out of everyone had managed to retain his timekeeping device even after all personal items had been confiscated during their stint in the Glasshouse.

"Nerian time?"

"Nah, Cadian."

"It is three in the morning on Haven," Cyrano leant on the butt of his M-36 sleepily. "And I do not need a watch to know that."

"Eh, how d'you know that?" Molke looked up at him quizzically.

"It is where I got married to a beautiful woman."

"She a lumpy-jumper?" Weld, on the floor, fidgeted where he was hemmed in by legs.

"I would let no woman of mine enlist," Cyrano waggled a finger emphatically. "For our posting would be at opposite ends of the galaxy, such is the unfairness of the great green machine; we would never see each other again. No, she awaits me on Haven."

"What happens when she gets lonely? They all do—" Kat said, inviting a jab in the ribs from Ral.

"She'll wait," Ral said firmly.

"And on my return, I want her to explode with babies!"

Aimo raised his eyebrows in surprise at Cyrano's choice of words. Gale chuckled. Kat lowered his newspaper an inch to glare across at Cyrano. "Interesting…"

Barking with mirth, Cyrano continued, "twins, great monsters with beards who will kick and scream. Aah yes! The Imperium will tremble at such beasts."

"You want to raise children, right now?" Aimo glanced out of the back of the Hennus, across the highway's concrete partition at the endless tide of offworlders who were hauling their lives alongside a million others southwards and away from Zeke. "I wouldn't want to raise a child in this."

"You speak from experience?"

"Would-be."

"Ah, you are betrothed?"

"Married. My daughter's two-and-a-half; and I dunno what she looks like. They're on Haven too. Who do you think this is for?" Aimo showed Cyrano the half-knitted garment. "It's gonna be a cardi for the little one."

"What is her name?"

"I couldn't think of a good name before I left. I'm sure the missus chose a good one," Aimo said hopefully. "Yeah, sure she has."

"Number one! You are hereby admitted to the married mens' club. Anyone else?" Cyrano looked around the contents of the truck.

The cooks were silent, Gale alone wore a wry grin, "divorced," he said, quickly looking away.

"Not takin' you out to the whorehouses any time soon then?" Kat muttered, hiding behind his paper once more. "No pleasures o' the flesh…"

"Oh no, I'll do it with whores fine," Aimo shrugged. "The missus wouldn't mind, they're not real people anyway." At this, Azar twitched and fixed Aimo with a fierce gaze, to which the latter paid no notice.

"What's so special you readin' there, Kat?" Ral craned his neck to see over the corner of Kat's paper. "Crossword?"

"Filled in."

"Why are you reading a week-old paper?" Aimo batted the other page down and snatched a look at the date.

"There something dirty written in that article?" Molke got up eagerly.

"Something dirty in the air," Ral wafted his hand in front of his face.

"Azar, you been eating dried fruit again?" Scurm tried to wiggle away from Azar. "Y'know how badly it comes out later on."

"Not for your eyes surely, young fella-me-lad," Gale put a steadying hand on Molke's shoulder as the Hennus' motion threatened to send him toppling over into someone's lap. "Are you even old enough to drink yet?"

"He ain't even old enough to shave," Azar smirked.

"I've got a little bit going," Molke said mildly, scratching at the few blond hairs on the underside of his chin.

"Sit down, Lad, easy does it," Gale said.

Aimo, meanwhile, was immersed in the bold black lettering that made up the heading of the Cadian Enquirer's third page. Reading it slowly under his breath, he realised why Kat was so interested in it. "Nerian conspirators sentenced to death…"

"Eleven officers of the Nerian 3rd Division convicted of crimes against the Imperium. Consorting with Xenos, collaboration, a conspiracy that would have been aimed at toppling the provisional government on Cadia," Kat read, loudly enough that only Aimo could hear.

"It say who?" Aimo winced as the truck bounced over a pothole, jostling them all.

"Nah, no names. S'not right…"

"Uh?"

"I said it's not right," Kat glanced at him in disbelief. "I've seen, in other papers, little columns of dissidents and their full names are always given. Them, their associates, and their families up for obliteration, scrubbed, the lot of 'em."

"I dunno, mate. Couldn't say."

"So why they leave us out of it, yeah? All us enlisted men and noncoms just let off."

"Don't think they're letting us off easy. Where we're going, it's not gonna be anywhere we want to go, not in a million years." Aimo watched the hordes of civilians on the opposite carriageway. "Think they got the right idea."

"Hmph, maybe this time we get to fight, not just run from an enemy we never saw," Kat rolled up his newspaper and leant forwards, resting on his knees, a moody expression on his face. "Bring us to the bondo, that's where I wanna go."

"You never saw the enemy?"

Cyrano, a funny expression on his face, had overheard, "we never saw the enemy either. Neither? Is it neither?"

"Neither, either?" Molke frowned and looked up at the canvas ceiling.

"Take it either way," Aimo's lip curled without the faintest trace of humour. "We saw 'em, not their faces, just smudges in the shape of men with rifles."

"We got strafed. A few bombs fell on us. 'Bout the only time we fired our rifles," Gale mused.

"We shot the horses. All of them," Cyrano, his tone flat, stared into the distance. "Not men. Just horses."

The hairs on Aimo's arms stood on end when he remembered the gathering dusk, and the sun setting over the open sand. The thousands of men, exposed, trapped between the fields of ice and the faceless enemy, all looking for a way out. The organised slaughter of the Atreides' mounts, so calmly carried out, did not give Aimo the slightest pause for thought when he passed them by with Larn and Martti Sinric. Now though, recounting it plunged an icy spear into his heart. The memory of the sharp cracks of the Atreides' officer's sidearm rang bells in his ears. Springtime though it was, Aimo suddenly shivered. Leaning on one arm he closed his eyes, wishing the heart-wrenching shrieks of the horses would stop. The blurry memory of his pregnant wife was faint, and the image of his two-year-old child nonexistent. Here they were nothing to anyone.

Cyrano's disturbing announcement put the lid on any further chatter. Kat tightened his rolled-up newspaper between his hands, his expression one of bitter resentment. Cyrano's eyes were faraway, fruitlessly striving to replace the horror he had witnessed with warmer, soothing visions of his partner. Aimo tried to fall asleep, but found it far too much an endeavour. How could Larn drop off in any place, at any time he chose, with little to no comfort? The lad slept a lot now. His spoken words in the last two weeks were less than what Aimo could count on his hands. He had changed, and Aimo was certain it was not for the better. Who was he? Where did he come from? What bizarre circumstances had driven an enemy alien to risk her life to rescue him from the fiery hell that Nemtess became in the last few hours?

"We're not going't Jark," Weld, the closest to the tailgate, aimed a finger at the ramparts of a Kasr built into a hillside the truck was driving past. "Kasr Jark's 'bout forty klicks north of Kraf. We might be turning onto Highway Five and heading west to Stark."

The anticipated turn-off never came. The drive northwards up Highway 1 persisted, as did the never-ending chain of refugees, and refuse dumped by the roadside. Perturbed at the lack of traffic going their way, Aimo gripped one of the ropes dangling from the metal frame above his head and lifted himself up and leant partially out of the truck to see where they were going. "Fuck me," his mouthed dropped. "Check out the right side, over eastwards." What Aimo had seen could only be described as a cathedral, half-buried in the earth, with eight giant engines attached to it. The eight tubes were pointing skywards at the same odd angle as the main body, which was painted, rather than military grey, a strange bottle green.

"Cor, ours or theirs?" Molke gawked at the long shadows the thing cast.

"Lumme. Fancy ain't it?" Weld pressed his glasses up his nose and blinked as the shiny buttresses were caught in the sun.

"Looks like a cathedral, but with engines?" Scurm forced Weld, who was leaning on the tailgate, aside to get a clear look.

"Not enough spikes, gotta be ours," Aimo said.

Cyrano had it summed up in a glance, "crashed starship, probably Marine pattern. Hundreds of 'em about probably, many more up there in orbit."

A few more moments of admiring the derelict, then interest was lost. There was nothing more to be said beyond speculation. The tedium of the journey was broken thirty minutes' later when the Hennus left the highway and turned onto a dirt road. The turning was not marked for there were no signposts of any kind on Cadia, not even cautionaries regarding speed. Cursing the Hennus' suspension and the general quality of the Cadian side roads in general, Aimo lifted himself up from his seat and rubbed his numb buttocks. The only upside to the worsening conditions under the wheels was that the journey was almost over. From above, the twin roars of fighter jets, going supersonic on a northerly heading, provoked only a few glances of mild interest as the pair of fast-moving specks sped by overhead. To Aimo, trying and failing to doze, it sounded like an earthquake underneath the Hennus's wheels. The fraction of solitude sleep offered was shattered then; everyone was now wide awake and more restless than ever. Furthermore, resentment of any and all aircraft, the seeds of which originated from Nemtess, had once more been sown. The near-total lack of protection from the Navy, Aimo remembered, had left men like him with coloured opinions of fighter pilots; or would have left had it not been for men like Leo Wind. Ironic that, as soon as he was back in the pilot's seat, he found permanent residence. Dying without ever seeing friendly soil again was harsh. At least he had not died alone, instead trying to protect others.

The squeal of breaks up ahead was followed by a sudden, and quite unexpected, loss of momentum that threw everyone against one another. Exclamations of protest from Weld and Scurm were interjected by wails of panic as Molke was knocked on his front and nearly buried underneath legs and boots. A hand banged on the Hennus' flank as someone outside shouted for the occupants to debus. "Right debus, you lot," Aimo slung his pack over his shoulder and unlatched the tailgate with his free hand. "C'mon, Cookie, find the latch."

Weld's unfamiliar fingers fumbled with the second latch that held the thin tailgate up, "almost, hang on."

"Ye glasses got fogged or something?" Scurm pushed at his fellow cook.

"Ain't got all day, Cheggers," Kat scowled.

"Got it," Weld found the method of release.

"Oi, offload. I don't wanna stick around here any longer than I have to!" the driver shouted impatiently from the cab, slapping his palm on the door.

"Debus!" Aimo leapt down from the truck onto ground that was slightly squishy underfoot. "Somebody wake Larn up!"

Two legs worked, keeping my body upright above them. A pair of gloved hands, attached to stick-thin arms, held an M-36 and an infantry pack, the latter slung over the body's shoulder. A thump from the ground rushing up to meet the pair of black, rubber-soled boots sent a protest through the knees, knobbly and unsteady underneath the thick sateen trousers. Still on autopilot, the eyes saw without seeing. The ears, dimly registering the command to fall in, persuaded the legs to propel the sleepy limbs vaguely in the direction of the voices. The mind, crisply gathering itself together as it would do under normal circumstances, instead rolled over dopily, sighing to itself in gloom. Strange nightmares had plagued the mind ever since its arrival on Cadia. Maddening visions of woe played out every night. Beings, places, incidents, never entirely complete, only fractions of traumatic events the body endured, the mind was forced to re-experience. It murdered sleep.

Wide gardens of razor-wire, green fortifications, and low, sandbagged bunkers jerked around my vision. Figures, tall and inhumanly thin, drifted around my vision, their movement janky as if worked by a puppeteer's strings. These puppets stopped, swayed, and grinned down at me. "…not gonna ask you again, Son." The three grinning puppets melded into one another, becoming one single figure in olive grey combats that stood staring down at me with his hands on his hips.

"My name's Corporal," I said quietly, my eyes clearing and making out the man before me.

Grinning with the demeanour of an NCO, the man replied, "and I'm Sergeant. Now go and fall in the rest of the noncoms like I've told you three times."

Bemused at the sergeant's soft, friendly tone, I hitched my pack higher on my shoulder and went over to where Kat and Gale stood separate from the others.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Kat murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "You ain't said ten words this past fortnight."

Ignoring him I propped the butt of my M-36 on the ground and took my surroundings in. The cloud-covered sky appeared foreboding, like it would shortly be emptying over our heads. The dark stains on the layers of sandbags, stacked fifteen feet high around a cluster of bunkers that bordered the open space we were standing showed it had rained in the past few days. Handfuls of men, in OG like we were, went about their daily routines, not even sparing us a cursory glance. "Been with the Bloods, playing truth or die with 'em," my words came out hushed. "They always win."

"Thought you was going psycho, was I wrong?"

"A psycho's someone who's just worked out what's going on," I continued. "Let 'em play catch with hand grenades all day…"

"…Oh dear," Kat turned his head a tiny bit and looked at me down his nose with concern.

Beside Kat, Gale was muttering incessantly, too concerned with the fate of his cookforce to interrupt. "Sergeant?" he called to the other NCO who was busy shepherding Gale's cooks. "Those three, they're mine."

"Oh, they're yours are they?" the sergeant sized Gale up curiously, "little too many for you to handle, how 'bout I give you one and keep the other two?"

"We're, we're cooks," Gale pointed out.

The sergeant's cheerful manner disappeared in a beat. "You're infantry replacements?"

"Well, me, Scurm, Azar, and Weld, we're cooks. The young one there, Molke, he's from a field company. Ral's a medic. Uhh him, he's a tanker I think," Gale indicated Otto Rinek, who had gone unnoticed by everyone on account of his complete silence.

"Wait, wait a minute, Sarn't," the sergeant held up a hand and leant in to confer with Gale quietly. "You're exactly where you need to be, and that's here, Cannon Company. The scrapings from the bottom of the barrel come here, and here's where they stay. You're all infantry now. Be grateful you're not in a penal battalion 'cause that's the only place worse than here."

"Yeah, uh, if I can bring this to your attention, Sergeant," Gale nodded at Cyrano. "That man's not a ranker."

"Then why isn't he over here? Emperor knows I've asked you clots enough times."

"Ask him," Gale shrugged.

"Well what are you then? Mister fancy fur hat?"

Cyrano, seemingly content with staying with the rankers, said, "I am a rider without a horse, a man without mount, a warrior deprived of his steed."

"Cav huh? Whose outfit?"

"The Third Atreides Cavalry Brigade. I am Sotnik Cyrano Alma Semirechye, and these are my friends."

"Sotnik Cyrano huh? Just what craphole they find you in?"

The twinkle had gone from Cyrano's eye. "These men may address me as Cyrano, for I regard them as friends. It does not extend to the likes of you. Snap to attention and salute me."

The sergeant was unperturbed at Cyrano towering over him. "You'd better get down off your high horse most ricky-tick, don't want the CO laying into you. You won't like him when he's mad, he gets really quiet. Besides, if you ever try and force a salute, be prepared to get your head blown off by a sniper."

"C'mon, Cyrano, over here with us," Gale beckoned. "We don't want any trouble."

"Only trouble you'll have here is with me, or Zeke."

"Zeke? What, the Perfs?" Azar scratched his head.

"Call 'em what you like, just do it with respect. We'll be getting to know them personally within the next week or so."

"That soon, Sergeant?" Molke said worriedly.

"Zeke's right across the river, and that's only two-thousand yards to the north. Welcome to Firebase Rakkassan. Right, NCOs and officer, with me. Corporal, fall the ORs out and let's get moving." Clapping his hands, the sergeant, still unnamed, bid a nearby corporal take everyone below the rank of lance corporal over to the billets, whilst he took us to the company commander. His residence was the widest bunker with the thickest boundary of sandbags, reinforced with ferrocrete blocks. Obeying the sign above the doorway that ordered us to clear our weapons, we descended the steps to the underground command bunker. Inside, the thick, earth walls were lit by weak bulbs that dangled from the ceiling and trembled at the slightest rumble in the distance. Gathered around a map, spread out on a table, was a captain and two subalterns. Quite different to the, more formally attired, junior officers whose OG combats were clean and uncreased, the captain wore brown leather officer's boots and had a spotted scarf underneath his dirty combats which bore no rank insignia.

"Perandis," the captain addressed the sergeant briefly before continuing to quietly converse with his officers. He concluded presently then gave us his full attention. "Are these the noncoms I asked for?"

"Er, yes, sir," Perandis nodded. "Weren't what I was expecting, truth be told."

"Not the usual spit-and-polish Cadian bods," the captain straightened up, pushing back his greasy fringe from where it hung down his forehead. "Is that a bearskin?" He eyed Cyrano's fur hat.

"He's an officer, sir. Least that's what he says. He's from a cav unit too, the four-legged, hairy type."

"What's your name, trooper?"

"Cyrano Semirechye, of the Third Atreides Cavalry; Sotnik Semirechye."

"No mob I've heard of."

"Sotnik has rank equal to lieutenant, but I will demote myself at once if most convenient. My unit is no more."

Never turning a hair, the captain went to shake Cyrano's hand. "Mik Meller, I'm 2IC to Major Sebben. He's the CO. Right now the CSM, CC, and CO are back at brigade in Jark right now, we're a bit understrength; that's why you're here."

"Yes, sir."

"Lieutenant Ehle and Corta, Eleven and Twelve Platoon's commanders." Meller introduced the two other officers with him.

"Katecka, sir, lance corporal," Kat said coldly, when Meller turned to him.

"Gale, I was mess sergeant in my company. The three I was with are my cooks."

"You'll be sent straight to kitchen, Sarn't. You and your men," Meller began on a good note, to which Gale was pleasantly surprised.

Standing silently beside Gale, I stared blankly up at the captain when he came to me. "Larn, sir, corporal." Meller did not reply. He seemed put-off by something about me.

Once introductions were done, Captain Meller, his officers' briefing over, invited us NCOs to look over the map. Rakkassan, or Rakka as the troops had nicknamed, was closer to the river than any other firebase in I Corps' sector. It covered a three-hundred yard long perimeter in the shape of a rough circle. On paper it had gardens of barbed-wire twelve feet wide with only a narrow gateway facing south that led back to the highway. Fields of Walloon anti-personnel mines and trip-flares, sown in a dead zone of three hundred yards north, west, and east surrounded the base.

Initially Rakka was a minor observation post intended to watch the river east of Kasr Luten. In the weeks preceding the invasion a planet-wide work programme saw Rakkassan expanded outwards and its defences built up. Now it was on the frontline. As explained by Captain Meller, Rakka received between 50 and 100 shells inside the perimeter each day from enemy guns firing on the other side of the river. However disconcerting it sounded, Meller reminded us that Zeke was not yet within mortar range, and the volume of incoming fire would only increase as he prepared for the assault on Rakka in the forthcoming week. Our orders were simply to hold our ground, the same for every firebase on the northern flank; simple in theory. When Cyrano questioned Meller on Zeke's strength and unit type, Meller confessed that intelligence had not been helpful with any of that. "Green Slime gave us nothing on Zeke across the river. We have 150 men here, the nearest firebase, Sollenthul, has 400. Between us, we're little more than a rut in the road for Zeke to stumble over." Even the artillery and air cover was limited, in the latter's case practically non-existent in the past week as assets were diverted to fronts with higher priority. Inwardly I remarked that the despite the perceived importance of the firebase's location, few resources had been allocated to it. The never-ending pops and distant rumbling told of large-scale battles happening on other fronts, reminding me that Rakka was strategically insignificant and far out of the way of the real war; for now at least.

Losing no time in sorting his new noncoms out, Meller lifted Kat to full corporal and, to my alarm, gave me a sergeancy. "Nah, number ten, sir, I'm a corporal," I spoke with more emotion than I had done in quite a while, prompting a look of annoyance from Meller.

"You'll be a private then if you don't take your stripes. Ten Platoon is down an officer and platoon sarn't."

"Aw just take the promotion, Larn," Gale clapped me on the shoulder.

"A sergeancy will do you good," Cyrano offered. "I will gladly serve as a private with you."

"I'll get the promotions authorised by the CO. He'll get them cleared by division," Meller said. "Sarn't Perandis will get you settled in. Welcome to Cannon Company."

C-for-Cannon, not C-for-Cain, was the final stop before a permanent posting to a penal legion. The company was made up of the worst drunks, gamblers, and troublemakers in military service in the Cadian Sector. Capital punishment being the norm, the convicted would normally have been sentenced to imprisonment or worse, but with a sector-wide state of emergency declared, all executions were formally postphoned until the crises were resolved. These groups of idle men, rather than being left in cells, were put back on deployment and organised into a provisional company that officially operated a battery of 132 mm 'Basilisk' howitzers, hence the designation 'Cannon'. Their mission emphasised rapid, short-ranged, and accurate delivery of ordnance in support of infantry attacks whilst being able to defend themselves if contact was made with the enemy; impressive on paper. The bright young officer who had forwarded the idea to the top brass must've got a massive payrise and an immediate promotion to a cushy staff job for his ingenuity. Cannon seemed perfect to the bigwigs. It was a place where they could send all wash-outs, and forget that they existed, with the added bonus of the enemy wiping them out instead of precious time and resources wasted in the undesirables' and their families' obliteration. Either way, they could not lose.

Thunder, natural this time, penetrated our hearts as we exited the CP. With darkening skies rolling in from the north came periodic flashes of lightning. Fat raindrops began to spatter on the shoulders of our bootneck flak jackets. "Invert 'em," I jogged Kat on the arm to get him to sling his M-36 upside down so water did not get inside the barrel.

"Ain't seen any cannons 'ere at all," Kat said, flipping his weapon over and tugging the sling over the vest's rope ridge. "S'posed to be a howitzer base, so where the big guns at?" He had a point. Beside the makeshift LZ outside the CP there was nowhere else on the base, which was comprised of about thirty standing bunkers of varying breadths and height, where there could feasibly be an artillery battery hidden.

"Dunno, mate. Logistic fuck-up maybe? How am I s'posed to know? I'm just a buck sarn't now."

"Yeah, prob'ly just under tarpaulins or something," Kat kicked at the ground morosely.

10 Platoon occupied a loose chain of bunkers that covered the north flank, the centrepiece of which was a small tower of sandbags with narrow vision slits behind the main trenchline. Its elevation gave it a commanding view of the dead zone, and the distant line of trees beyond. This was our first stop. "Hunh," Kat grunted at seeing five privates sleeping amongst crates of compo and ammunition in the semi-darkened interior.

"One small, the other large, which of one of you's in charge?" A pair of boots dangled above the sleeping men, their owner sitting on the firestep above, his face hidden behind a pair of thick-rimmed, Guard-issue glasses.

In contrast to my stoicism, Kat's faced split into a grin. "Oh-ho! A fucking comedian. I like you, cunt. Now come on down here and tell me who's in charge o' this shit-heap."

"You a r-replacement?"

"We're hecklers. We've come to jump on your programme."

The man jumped down, landing square in front of Kat. He was able to match his height exactly and look him in the eye. "Oh yeah, you and the little lad gonna jump on my programme are ya?"

"That's Sarn't Little Lad to you, mate," I said.

Kat smiled. "Your cap's handing out promotions like they're sweets. This place is up for a change in hands. You're looking at the new manager."

Before things could escalate further, I stepped in, "bring the section leaders in, I wanna speak to 'em 'ere."

"Iggery!" Kat barked suddenly when Spectacles hesitated.

Groans came from the sleeping privates rudely awoken by Kat's exclamation. "I'm, I'm 1 Section's leader," Spectacles said. "Dranno, the blokes call me Draino."

"Fullscrew?"

"Yeah."

"He's Kat. He's gonna be section commander if there's a space available."

"Yeah, 3 Section's vacant."

"Where's 2 Section then?"

"They're on OP on 558, Hill 558. You can see it if you look west."

"Rotations?"

"Noon each day. 2 Section's coming back tomorrow."

"Okay," I nodded. "Catch me up then."

"Err."

"What's been going on 'round here, Corp?" Kat glared. "Talk manpower, defences, weaponry, ammo, contact with the enemy…"

"This platoon HQ?" I pointed a finger at the ground we were standing on.

"Yes."

"Right, let's have all these lads out of here and back in the trenches, chop-chop. I need space."

"Get outta here, all of you!" Kat chivvied the drowsy platoon members out of the door one by one.

When the bunker was vacant, I righted a crate of .50 cal ball and tracer and sat down indicating Draino was to sit opposite me. "Sitrep, Corporal." Whilst I divested myself of my heavy gear, Draino explained, in rather unsure terms, everything that had been going on in 10 Platoon's sector over the past week. The daily shellfire had killed one and wounded two, which was all that amounted to enemy action. Zeke had not yet been seen in person, as the few patrols sent out had reported no sign of him on the south bank. Currently the forty men in 10 Platoon, minus the twelve-man section that was on OP, had had little to do beyond work the lone 105 mm howitzer – a Cikavak, the 132 mm Basilisk's younger brother – when it was their turn, and keep their heads down whenever rounds fell inside the perimeter. Spotting Zeke from Hill 558 was fruitless as he only moved at night. This lack of contact stretched nerves and only sought to increase the boredom which was running rife through the company. Zeke was out there biding his time, and we would not have long to wait before he fell upon us.

* * *

Rain splattered our helmets as Kat, Draino, and I walked the perimeter, passing men huddled underneath ponchos inside damp bunkers that smelt of bodies and gun oil. The sound of the rain drumming on the corrugated iron roofs quelled any exterior noise. "No weather for fighting," Draino remarked, tentatively trying to break the ice.

"Nah, perfect, Zeke'll love this. You won't hear him coming," Kat said, tipping his helmet forward to dispense the water.

Concentrating on the area just beyond the wire, I realised there were large gaps between rolls. The wire should have completely surrounded the base, but spaces large enough for four or five men in combat gear to charge through were quite visible. "These gaps in the wire…"

Draino wiped the moisture from his glasses and squinted over the sandbags, "uh, yeah the base is still under construction, unofficially of course. We just ran out of wire before we could finish the perimeter."

"Got anything else, or can Zeke just stroll up to us and hoik a satchel charge into a bunker?" Kat offhandedly shook his head in acute dismay, a gesture he made sure I noticed.

"Tripwire connected to flares. Walloons too, we got 'em daisy-chained together so four of 'em get set off with each clacker. We, uh, paint the backs of 'em white so we can tell whether they've been turned round or not." Wiping his glasses once more Draino pointed out at the dead zone. "They should be… ah."

"What?" Kat and I clambered up onto the firestep next to him.

"Shit, someone's turned them round. We should be able to see the white paint but…"

"And how long have they been like this?"

"Probably since last night. I'll uh, send someone out tonight to turn them 'round."

"Do it myself," I said.

"You're platoon sarn't, we can't lose you," Kat said. "You don't know where the tripwires are. If you set one off—"

"Then you'll know it's me," I tapped Draino on the shoulder. "We'll both go out."

"Urgh, fine," Draino agreed reluctantly.

"If you don't do stuff for your men, why should they do stuff for you?" Kat hopped down from the firestep.

"I was sarn't before I got busted for hitting tripe like…"

"Like who?" Kat went eye-to-eye with Draino again.

"Gimme an ammo count, what kind of firepower do we have?" I interjected, coming between the two men.

"M-35s and 36s for most, .338s for the best marksmen, and Rekyls and forty-mil Castras for every section. None of us have fired once since the base was built, so ammo's not a concern. Stump-Throwers are on-call. There's a FOO around here somewhere, he's in contact with the FDC at Jark."

"Good, let's move on," I took Kat by the arm and directed him further down the trench whilst keeping myself between him and Draino. "What's that downed ship we saw coming in?"

"Huh?" Draino had not heard. I repeated myself, louder, to be heard over the rain. "Marines," he said shortly. "We don't go near it. It looks dead, sure, but it's definitely occupied."

A wet tarpaulin draped over an object pointing towards a firing slit caught my eye. Lifting it up I saw the spade grips and paddle trigger of a .50 cal. "She doesn't like getting wet," Draino said.

"Well, we've seen enough," I concluded, dropping the corner of the tarpaulin. "Back to the bunker. I want to go over the platoon's fireplan then compare it with 11 and 12 Platoon's fireplan."

Once inside the shelter of the tower bunker we worked out a new fireplan for when the platoon's sector was attacked. A night attack would most appeal to Zeke, where he would be able to steal as close to the wire as possible before swarming the defences. The plan hinged on whether or not Zeke tripped an illumination flare. If one went up as consequence of a badly placed foot then the Walloons would be detonated and every lasgun, rifle, automatic, and grenade launcher would be fired in greeting. If, on the other hand, Zeke chose a quieter, more stealthy approach then a great deal more subtly was needed. So far Draino, Kat and I had agreed on everything, but when Draino mentioned employing the Rekyls and .50 cal for searching fire I had to disagree with him. Both automatics, one magazine-fed, the other belt-fed, had a number of standard ball to every red-tipped tracer round. These one-in-five could be seen quite clearly at night, allowing enemy observers to pinpoint the exact location of the weapon, and employ accurate counter fire. As a solution I suggested only employing the few Castra 40 mm grenade launchers as defensive weapons, or simply throwing grenades out into the dead zone because neither produced bright muzzle flash. If that did not work, then request the Stump-Thrower battery blanket the dead zone with HE and WP. When Draino was adamant that we had to have the section automatics I formed a compromise, which was to remove every single tracer round from each magazine and belt, replacing them with either standard ball, or black-tipped armour-piercing, but even then they would only be brought into action as a last resort.

Over on the western flank, which looked up the slopes of Hill 558, I met with 11 Platoon's officer, 2nd Lieutenant Ehle. Carrying himself somewhat stiffly, the young subaltern, who could not have been more than 23, seemed averse to being given advice by an even younger noncom. "Erm, yes, that's all very well, Sergeant, but have you discussed it with Captain Meller?"

Keeping a patient tone with the subaltern I said, "yes, sir, I thought it'd be a good idea if you and Twelve Platoon's officer got a handle on it first. Once it's all been agreed, we can take it to Captain Meller."

"We, we have our own fireplan, you know, Sergeant. I'm can't understand why you would have the Rekyl gunners hold their fire. A firm, concentrated response is needed to deal with Zeke."

"Yes, sir, of course, but it would mean less security for the Rekyl gunners. Their muzzle flashes will give away their position to enemy spotters and snipers. Hand grenades and launchers are a safer option. Or just leave it the mortars to deal with Zeke; he's got no cover out there above his head. I agreed with my section leaders that if a firmer hand is needed then the Rekyls and Fifty Cal can fire, but the tracers in their belts must be first removed and substituted with ball or armour-piercing."

"Interesting, you just make that up on the fly?" a familiar voice said cheerily. Ral Bleak, heaving two full medical satchels with him, ducked under the doorway of the bunker.

"This is a private conversation, Private," Ehle said angrily. Ral snorted and winked at me.

"Can we bring this discussion to Captain Meller, sir?" I asked.

"Yes, I'm sure the captain will put you on the straight and narrow," Ehle tugged his raincape over his head and replaced his beret with hard cover. Striding outside, Ehle paid no notice to Ral.

"Be nice," Ral warned. "They'll come down on you like a tonne of bricks otherwise."

Grunting, I thumped Ral on the shoulder and followed Ehle.

"I think this promotion may have gone to this man's head," Ehle said to Captain Meller once we were inside the CP. "He proposes a quite significant change in the company fireplan. Apparently he convinced his section commanders of its worth. I do not see the benefit of reducing our firepower for the sake of protecting our weapons teams."

Waiting for the subaltern to finish, Meller swivelled in his chair and surveyed me with measured eyes. "Sarn't, you have past experience – evidence – of this plan working?"

"No, sir," I felt the jaws begin to close around my head.

"Then I must deny your proposal. You didn't just make it up on the fly, did you?"

"Thought it might be worth a try, sir, in case the enemy try infiltrating."

"We we on exercises, I might have considered such a foray," Meller scratched his head. "I trust promoting you wasn't a mistake, and you have some experience?"

"A little, sir."

"Do you understand what it means to be a sergeant?"

"Not really, sir. Never been one before."

"If an officer, Lieutenant Ehle for example, gives you an order, you are compelled to obey it. Were you in his platoon you would be carrying out his orders and making sure the section commanders fully understand their task; but you are not. You have your platoon, and as such are taking orders now from me and me alone. I can very well have an NCO from Eleven Platoon take over the running of Ten Platoon, with you assuming the duties of a section commander in Eleven Platoon. Would you like that to happen?"

"No, sir," I said quietly.

"Do you know your position?"

Swallowing hard, I replied, "yes, sir."

"Very good, dismissed."

I saw Lieutenant Ehle struggle to suppress a triumphant smile on his way out of the CP. My dislike for him soared, very nearly surpassing what I had harboured towards Azar. Damn them both.

"One moment, Sergeant," Meller spoke.

"Sir?" I turned back from the open door, clasping my hands behind my back.

"Pull that chair up," Meller pointed at a rickety chair that stood off to one side. "Sit down."

"Sorry, sir—"

"You're not sorry," Meller cut in. "Are you?"

"No, sir, sometimes officers are work."

"That we are," Meller leant back in his chair and propped his feet up on the table. "That we are. Now coming from another officer, it sounds like just the same bull you've become used to hearing. But if I was to say that I wasn't always an officer, would you be more likely to listen?"

"You came from the ranks, sir?"

"I was a staffy before. And I'll say this: soldiers hate staff sergeants almost as much as they hate officers. Cunts they called us. Boy did that get worse once I got my pips. Mik Meller, officer and a gentleman! There's a special kind of hatred the officer class holds for the jumped-up rankers, and no matter how gifted you are, how skilled you can be in battle, it never goes away. If you don't have a Degree of cuntery from the Schola Progenium, you can't be anyone."

I said nothing, shifting on the edge of my chair uncomfortably. The CP was deserted apart from a corporal manning a comm station. Both his ears were covered in the earpieces of his Rascal headset so he was not privy to our conversation.

"Do you want to be an officer?" Meller asked.

"No, sir," I shook my head firmly. "Never."

"Neither did I. But I am here nonetheless."

"I can't be an officer, sir. I'm not, I'm not…"

"Not officer material? Neither was I. An impoverished upbringing by a father married to alcohol, and a mother married to Obscura. The former said I was a waste, and a mistake. The latter, when she was conscious, spoke often of her desire to abort me or give me up for adoption so she was free to indulge in her addiction without having to care for a child; which she never did anyway."

 _What's your point?_ I said internally. I did not like it when officers were overly friendly with enlisted men or NCOs. It reminded me of the faux-affability of Kaukasios, may his soul be condemned forever.

"My point," Meller, reading my thoughts, said, "…well, it doesn't matter. We get given what we get given, and it's unfair. Tell me it's not fair."

"It's not fair, sir."

"You speak your mind. I'd be careful, or that mouth of yours will get you into trouble."

"S'not the first time I've butted heads, sir," I said. "Lot of officers are cunts. I'm not do sure 'bout you though."

"Do you trust me more because I came from the ranks?"

"I don't trust anyone really anymore, sir. I can't say, I trust you, 'cause you weren't there."

"And where would that have been. Where was your last posting?" Meller produced an engraved hip flask and poured a tot into a battered blue mug. I shook my head when he slid it across the tabletop to me.

"Nemesis Tessera. Nerian 228 Regiment, part of Third Division."

"Read a story in the papers about some Nerians; funny business. Some sort of conspiracy, a plot amongst officers to undermine the government here on Cadia."

"Don't know, sir. The officers didn't tell us nothing. We got off Nemtess by ourselves. Every man for himself."

"…Yeah," Meller looked thoughtful as he drank. "Erm, this fireplan of yours… try it. Give it a go, see if it works. Just don't let on to the other officers about it, huh? I want to trust you with a platoon, I very much do. If it works, fine. If not then you'll never be wearing stripes again."

"Yes, sir."

"Good luck, Sarn't…" Meller put his feet down, leant over the table, and reached out to shake my hand.

"Larn, sir."

We shook.

"Make you famous?" someone called to me as I clambered up the slippery steps leading out of the CP. That reporter from the prison cage, I could not remember his name, came hopping over puddles in my direction. Underneath his raincape numerous cameras were no doubt slung. Tossing him a baleful glance, I hunched my shoulders and walked quickly away. Undeterred, the journalist hurried after me. "Nothing like a good shower, wash away all those dark thoughts," he said, leaping over a particularly wide puddle. "C'mon, soldier, smile for the Emperor!"

I could see he was not going to be put off so easily. "Keep following me, I'll hang you out to dry on the wire."

"Tough talk, expected nothing less of a Nerian," the journalist laughed, matching my pace.

"I'm not a Nerian."

"Oh, so what were you doing in a Nerian Division then?" he asked with interest.

"Long bloody story."

"Perfect, shall we settle for a four o'clock appointment—?"

Stopping, I turned and shoved the journalist backwards. It was less of a forceful shove, but enough to make him fall over in the wet mud. "Stay away from me!" I growled.

"Uhh, maybe I can help you?" the journalist, sprawled on his back, struggled to pick himself up.

"No one can help me!" I thrust my wet hands in my pockets and left the flustered man in the mud.

I did not return to 10 Platoon's sector, instead making a trip around the eastern flank, where 12 Platoon were hiding in their bunkers. The few men on stag in the open trenches did not look down from their posts as I passed by. A party, a little way behind the trench line were busy filling sandbags with earth that spilled from open sacks. The downpour was making each man's life miserable, going by their sullen faces underneath their dripping helmets. "Just wait 'til we start burning our shit, you'll love doing this!" a sniffling private cried.

"Why do you burn shit?" Jacklyn Molke threw back his head and sneezed loudly.

"What else can you do with it? Some units dump theirs in the river, bloody Emperor knows it stinks enough. But we, oh no, we have to burn it in great big barrels! Can't bury it, oh no, Captain says we're not allowed to."

"You privates got something to bring to the captain?" Aimo suddenly appeared from underneath a tarpaulin. Pressing his cover down on his head he readily mucked in with Molke and the others, shovelling earth inside the open sacks. "I'm your direct link. Any complaints, any issues, let me know, and I'll take it to Mister Corta, he'll then pass it up to the captain, who'll explain why everything around here is either water-logged, filled with earth, rotten, rusted, warped, broken, or otherwise thoroughly unserviceable. Thank you. Oh, Molke, that flak jacket doesn't belong on the floor."

"Why bother wearing it, it won't stop a round. It's even heavier than our old ones," Molke, complained, having dumped his ten-pound bootneck flak jacket by his feet.

"Right now all we've got to worry about is fragmentation, which is precisely what your vest is supposed to protect against, now put it on!" Glancing up, Aimo noticed me hovering at a distance. "Come to help?" Shaking my head I looked elsewhere and wandered away. "Thought you was gonna muck in with the men," Aimo panted, catching up to me.

"Ten Platoon was vacant. I'm Sarn't now," I said, wiping my running nose on the back of my hand.

"Eurgh, don't mean nothing, eh?"

"Nah."

"Anyone else with you?"

"Kat, he's fullscrew, with a section. Ral's about in Eleven Platoon's sector. Not seen anyone else since."

"Them cooks are in the kitchen—"

"Let 'em stay there."

"Yeah. Molke's with me, haven't seen Cyrano, he's probably about somewhere."

"He's hard to miss."

Aimo snorted. "Yeah."

"That reporter's about…"

"Joe – Joe Herle. That was his name, I think."

"Just watch him, okay? Don't…"

A far off moan sent us both scurrying into a nearby dugout. Both accustomed to the signs of incoming artillery, we needed no encouragement. "Oi, you lot!" Aimo barked to Molke and the work party. "Incoming mail!" To me he added, with a laugh, "that gets 'em moving."

Sitting upright in the centre of the bunker, I remained motionless with open eyes as angry boots stomped around outside, throttling my insides and shaking them up and down with cruel abandon. A faint smile reached the corners of my mouth. As the world trembled at the mercy of the exploding shells I felt a rich excitement stir deep inside me, exciting and arousing. It raised the hairs on the back of my neck and arms. I willed the searching fingers to seek me out and try to claim me. I dared them. I was halfway outside the dugout when Aimo noticed and pulled me back inside. "Careful, Sarn't, fireworks ain't over yet," he joked.

"You mad?" One of the platoon members, his hands pressed down over his ears, looked at me, baffled at my disdain for the artillery which was still falling in small salvos. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the barrage ended.

"They like to shower us regularly, keeps us on our toes," another 12 Platoon man wiggled his fingers in his ears. "Dunno how they can stand it in one of them Kasrs."

I plucked at Aimo, pulling him outside, and back into the rain. "Don't pay any attention to the reporter, okay? Don't tell him anything."

Still trying to clear his head, Aimo flipped his cover over and adjusted the inner sweatband. "About what?"

"Anything 'bout Nemtess."

"What, even about you and the tank?"

"Doesn't matter anymore, we still lost the bloody planet, didn't we? Why should that nosy bastard know anything?"

Aimo stared at me through the driving rain. "Is it 'cause you don't want him to know about you and that St—"

Taking Aimo by the shoulder, I walked him away from the dugout. "All that business with them Stickies is gonna get you and me, and all the lads in trouble. They already binned the officers who were with us; binned 'em good and proper. Let the brass do away with the officers, who cares 'bout 'em anyway. We're all 'ere, safe from the firing squad for now. Let's just lie low, waste some Zeke. We'll fade away soon enough so no-one will know we were in cahoots with the Stickies."

"Still wonderin' how we got off so lightly. I was frightened, you know, frightened that because of the xenos gettin' involved, that my family would be gettin' the knock on their door at three in the morning. Cyrano, his missus is on Haven too. She would be getting' the call also. And me and him back here, helpless to protect 'em from the people we're s'posed to be fightin' for."

"But they're not, are they? They're safe," I fixed my eyes on the mud-splattered toecaps of my boots.

"Why are we here, Larn? It's not a coincidence all of us, your friends, got posted here with you is it?"

"Nah, nah it's not," I clamped my teeth together, hard, unable to look Aimo in the eye.

"What did you do?"

"I did something I shouldn't have done," I admitted, trying and failing to keep from tearing up. "Uh, it's best you don't know. It's not gonna work out well for me in the long run, but it'll be alright for you and yours," I coughed, trying to stifle my breaking voice. "Cyrano, Ral, Kat, you'll all be fine. Just, all you gotta do is worry 'bout Zeke. I've got problems o' mine own, and I'll deal with 'em myself."

"That's not fair."

"Meller said that, and it in't fair. What's best for you is to forget Nemtess and move on. Look ahead to when you get to go home."

"It's not fair, 'cause you don't get to go home with us. Whatever happens, you're coming home with us. We're not leaving blokes behind again, not like Nemtess. I know I've said this before but your mate – bloody good lad – gave his life to put you on that ship. And he would want you to make it through all the way. Don't let him down, 'cause he's watching you, willing you to pull through."

The mention of Martti hit me deep down, hurt me deep down. The hurt was quite impossible to conceal. Aimo understood though, enough that I did not want to discuss it further. In silence we went off to the kitchen to look up Gale, and see if he could fix us with a brew. A proper Guard-style brew, one we'd had to suffer without since the days on Nemesis.


	18. Chapter 17

**Kasr Hollen, Cadia Secundus, 15:45 (Cadian Time)**

Figures were silhouetted in the flames as the last bastion of Kasr Hollen fell. Standing atop broken walls and crumbling ramparts, the conquerors let loose long bursts of automatic gunfire at the sky, whooping in triumph. Crawling from their bolt-holes, the few remaining defenders emerged from the smoke and swirling dust with hands raised, marching out to their captors with ashen faces and hung heads. Driven out of hiding too were civilians. The elderly, too old to fight, shuffled alongside the soldiers, in their arms babies were cradled in blankets. Toddlers, too young to understand, stared at the bayonets mounted on the strange mens' weapons. Others amongst them, refugees that had fled their homeworlds to seek shelter on Cadia, had believed that the Kasr's walls would protect them. But with the final surrender, their lives were now at the mercy of the dreaded enemy. With their previous jubilance evaporating, the Chaos rank and file now watched the crawling lines in silence. Aside from the occasional crackle of las and rifle fire, the city had fallen silent. Scorching flames ran rife through the diagonally-shaped streets, filling narrow gaps with clouds of black smoke, burning out any stubborn pockets of resistance. Dissatisfied with letting the city collapse by itself, tanks rolled the streets, putting round after round of high explosive into any structures still standing. Flamethrower teams prowled alleyways and back gardens, pouring streams of burning promethium inside bunkers on street corners, slit trenches, any feasible place where the enemy was hiding, never mind whether they were in uniform or not. Squads donning respirators tossed gas grenades into congregations of civilians who were unwilling to move, and emptied poisonous chemicals into the water system. In the distance sharp _whumps_ sounded as ammunition stockpiles were detonated one by one. Great showers of pink sparks, bright even in daylight, were reduced to dull flashes through the airborne blanket of ash hanging over the ruins of Kasr Hollen.

The rubber seals of the gas mask, tightening over Izuru's face, briefly panicked her. The old fear of enclosed spaces, surfacing after lying dormant for so long, caught her off-guard enough that she struggled to ease her rising heartbeat. Blinking behind the wide, round lenses, Izuru sucked air in through her mouth, held, and exhaled through her nose. For a minute there she was an untried youth again, frightened and unsure of herself. The fear was abruptly banished when a tingle of pain in her belly self-consciously made her press her hand against the wound. The sealant, a strong adhesive with numbing effects, was beginning to wear off, leaving a dull ache in its place. What ached now would no doubt hurt later, and the lingering threat of an untreated wound, growing on Izuru's mind, stirred up nothing but thoughts of dread inside her; reminding her that she was now truly alone. Varro and Leyko, along with the rest of her command, were dead, Keladi Lethidia and Avele Swifteye, missing; maybe they too were dead. And Izuru was now poised to put on the mask, to become someone she did not want to be. It was against her heart's wishes, she knew it was wrong, but for her a return to the cold, ruthless pragmatism that had guided her under the Corsairs was Izuru's only hope were she to stand a chance at surviving amongst the enemy's ranks.

Cold-bloodedly, Izuru tugged the straps over her head and tightened them, setting the respirator firmly in place. Further removing her individuality, Izuru drew the hood of a dirty, two-piece camouflaged smock, looted from a dead Chaos soldier, over her mask, covering her head entirely. The baggy suit, worn underneath an ammunition vest stuffed with magazines, allowed her to fade away effortlessly and scour the ruins of Kasr Hollen unchallenged. The Chaos patrols paid no attention to the tall, hooded soldier wearing a gas mask and carrying a rusted Vintok Carbine. He was there for the same reason they were; to loot. In search of medical supplies, Izuru came upon pile after pile of empty crates, containers and sacks tossed carelessly about. What the enemy could not steal for themselves, they burned or destroyed, leaving absolutely nothing left. Civilians too had picked up the junk discarded by the soldiers, useless scraps even the latter had not wanted. So thorough the scavengers had been, there were not even any shell casings or empty magazines left in the rubble. There was nothing. The city was picked clean, razed, and deathly quiet.

A clatter of tank tracks turned Izuru's head towards a squat, low mass moving through gaps in buildings. An armoured vehicle mounting a flamethrower, ploughing through a wall, drove alongside a long cathedral, squirting jets of liquid fire through the high windows which were all without glass. _Civilians,_ Izuru shivered at the thought of the defenceless, hiding in fear of the invaders. Her sympathy for the humans suddenly seemed like terrible foolishness on her behalf. What was her reason for it again? Tiny fragments of glass crunched beneath her feet as she struggled to recall why her concerns were for humans, where, rightly, her kind came first. The painted glass windows of the cathedral had all been blasted outwards by artillery that had punched through the roof and exploded from the inside, spraying the green, yellow, and red fragments over adjacent streets. The multi-coloured coating, previously glinting like snow, was now dulled by fresh layers of stone and ferrocrete. Steel tracks and masses of boots further trampled the remains, leaving an eerily flat expanse around the cathedral, the most prominent structure beside the Kasr's citadel. _Curious that the humans'_ _value piety over all else. Why_ _would their place of worship be granted such dominion over the other structures in the city?_ The Mother would abhor the extravagant architecture dedicated solely to her, for it harkened back to the days before the Fall, when the Eldar had ruled the stars, complacent in their arrogance, never comprehending that they were engineering their own destruction. _Complacent in our arrogance, and we thought we were better than them._

Trailing in the wake of the flame-tank, Izuru continued her search. Several streets away from the cathedral, the gouges in the ground made by the tracks veered away to the left, westwards. Izuru turned right, eastwards and a little to the north, back towards the river, away from the hot gusts of wind that sent dirt inside her hood and up her sleeves. What with the mask's restrictive field of vision, Izuru did not see the patrol until it was very close. Eight men in dark brown fatigues and respirators identical to hers suddenly crossed the street in front of her. For an army that had so recently fought fierce battles for the city, these men were remarkably relaxed. Not a single one of the eight had unslung his lasgun. None had donned hard cover or fixed bayonets. Instead forage caps with large earflaps were worn. A looting party, opportunists looking for plunder to keep for themselves, or sell to make a profit. Strange that even in war there were profiteers. Aware she would not remain unnoticed Izuru raised a hand in greeting when a few of the party turned their heads in her direction. Her confidence worked as one of them waved back nonchalantly. "Have you seen Three Company?" A muffled voice came from behind the mask. Coming about in the dust, Izuru held her Vintok in one hand, pointing it in the direction the patrol was heading, and shrugged, quickly dropping her arms to her sides. Gesturing as a human would irked her. She remembered Keladi taking up on it, and her chiding the young one for emulating the humans. Too much time spent around them and their habits would start to rub off one way or the other. Wiping away the build-up of dust on her lenses, Izuru turned and walked backwards a pace, keeping an eye on where she had directed the patrol. Once certain she was not being followed, Izuru cast her eyes about for something, anything she could bring back to Woulter, Peter, and the Highlanders. Sighing, she remarked inwardly that this selflessness would, at some point in the future, invite a bayonet in the back, probably from the very humans she was trying to help. _A halfbreed, and a fool_.

"Can you help me find my mama?" A child's voice called to her. Alarmed, in no small measure, Izuru twisted her head left and right seeking who it was that had spoken. How had a child stolen up to her so quietly? "Please?"

"Where are you?" Izuru murmured, closing her eyes and listening.

"If you open your eyes, you'll see me."

Opening her eyes, Izuru saw, through the smoke, a little girl holding a stuffed toy in front of her. The sooty-haired child, very young, waved a tiny hand. "Hello," Izuru said, waving back.

"The other soldiers ignored me, said I was too young. I didn't know what they meant by that. Can you help me find my mama?"

Glancing around to see if they were alone, Izuru laid her Vintok on the ground and pulled her gas mask up from her sweaty face. The little girl's face lit up when she saw Izuru's, "I knew you weren't like the other soldiers!"

"Ssh," Izuru raised a finger to her lips. "I am hiding from them."

"My mother is too, but I can't find her."

"And what is your name?" Izuru came closer, slowly kneeling in front of the child.

"Mmm…" the child fidgeted, gently swaying. "Mama says I shouldn't tell strangers my name."

"Well, then who is this?" Izuru nodded at the stuffed toy the child was clinging to. "Does he have a name?"

"It's a girl!" the child said crossly. "Boys are horrible. Boys stink."

"Her then, what is her name?"

"Lilli."

"Hello, Lilli. My name is Izuru."

"You have a pretty face."

Izuru smiled, "so does Lilli."

"Lilli is a stuffed toy. She doesn't have a pretty face."

"Oh, well, I must ask forgiveness. If Lilli does not have a pretty face, she does not have a pretty face."

"Hmph. Why do you wear that big mask?"

"The smoke is dangerous, it can poison your lungs," Izuru dragged the mask off, pushing her hood back as she did so.

"You're a xeno," the child stepped back a pace, as if considering running. "You're a xeno."

"I am," Izuru nodded, smiling warmly.

"But you have a human face," the child's mouth opened in awe. Slowly she reached out and touched Izuru's cheek with dirty fingertips. "Your ears are pointed."

"They are."

"May I touch them?"

"Of course."

Izuru sat on her knees and let the child's tiny fingers touch the tip of her ear. "Are they real?" the child asked.

"Of course," Izuru laughed without intending to, slapping her hand over her mouth upon realising.

"You have sad eyes."

Intrigued, Izuru said, "you are very insightful for your age."

The child however said nothing else, just, "please help me find my mama."

"Of course, but where is your father?"

"The bad men took him away. If he was here he would beat me for talking to a xeno. Then he would kill you."

Izuru was shocked at the notion a grown adult would beat his young child, "how heartless of him. How can he beat you?"

"He's my father."

"And would he kill me?"

"Oh yes. Xenos are horrible, horrible monsters. Without the Imperium, we would all be enslaved by you. Without the Emperor's guidance, the galaxy would be left in darkness."

"Is that what they teach you to believe?"

"It's what we all believe, because it's true."

"I did not teach my children that."

Taken aback at that, the child squeaked, "but you're a xeno, you can't have children."

"Why?"

"You're…" the child stammered, lifting up Lilli up and trying to hide behind her.

"I wonder what Lilli thinks?"

"Lilli can't think, she's a toy."

"You are very protective of her."

"That's because she's mine, you can't have her!"

"No, Lilli is yours by right. Would you like me to help you find your mother?"

"Mmm, yes please," the child nodded, still hiding behind Lilli.

Fetching her Vintok, Izuru propped it beside her gas mask before joining the child. "Where did you last see your mother?"

"Here. When the bombs first fell, I ran away to my father. He was angry when I found him and sent me home."

"This is your home?" Izuru realised, sadly, the child was standing in the ruins of her old house. The walls, the ceiling, even the foundations were gone.

"Yes. I waited for ages for Mama to find me here. Why did she not come? I thought maybe she was hiding from the scary men."

 _Oh, you poor thing_ , Izuru felt like hugging the child tightly. To anyone else it was brutally obvious where the child's mother was, everyone except the child. "Come let us seek out your father."

"I can't leave. I live here."

"If you don't leave here, you will die. I cannot protect you."

"No, I do not need your protection, Xeno," the child remained standing resolutely in front of her home. "I thank you for your kindness."

Afraid for the child, Izuru held out her arm and opened her palm, asking the child to take her hand. "I will respect your decision. If you change your mind, travel north to the river and follow it inland. You will find me, I am not alone." Picking up her carbine and respirator, Izuru paid the child one last glance, then turned to leave.

"No, you are not alone. To find your sibling, seek out the lost soldier."

Her heart leaping into her throat, Izuru caught her breath sharply. Whirling round to the child she stared, dismayed, at the deserted ruins. Where the child had stood, Lilli the stuffed toy sat. The nameless child was gone.

* * *

Chill winds blasted in from the Caducades Sea, whipping through the tall sand dunes overlooking the river. Sitting cross-legged beside one another, Woulter and Peter Leurbach shivered in the cold. Beneath them refugees, innumerable, were taking shelter in the shadow of the grassy dunes. Little plumes of smoke, miniscule next to the city-sized columns, rose from blazes started on the wide riverbank. They, however, were minute in scale when compared with the far shores of Cadia Primus; which was being devoured in an inferno of smoke and fire. Swathed in coats, scarves, some little more than rags, the refugees clustered around in tight groups, warming themselves over the flames. Children ran around screaming. Babies bawled, their parents rocking them gently to soothe their cries. Displaced from Kasr Hollen they clung to what few material possessions the soldiers had not taken from them. For many, the clothes on their back were all they had left. Peter felt a strange familiarity with the civilians, his situation relatable to theirs, despite being on opposing sides. But where the Tabors and the Gellens could simply get up and leave, rejoining their allies, the civilians were condemned to remain where they were for the duration of the invasion. The nearest bridges connecting Primus and Secundus were blown, and those still standing further inland were where the fighting was heaviest; no place for non-combatants. Southwards and eastwards would be in the tracks of the invaders, the very people the refugees had been trying to flee. To the west, the ruins of Hollen lay, and beyond that, the sea.

Behind and to their left, an acrid, bitter smell wafted over from the burning Kasr, the fires of which, left unattended, raged on. Over the sharp smell of smoke and ash, a richer, sweeter smell of fruit, ripening to the point of rottenness, rose. Woulter recognised the telltale whiff of organic decomposition. All the more disturbing however was that there were no bodies in sight. It was all coming from the Kasr, at most four klicks distant. Whatever hellfire had struck Hollen, it had done so with terrifying efficiency, sweeping through the city streets, mounting a death toll to rival a plague. Woulter, Peter, and the Highlanders had only witnessed the aftermath of the Imperials' defeat, and the subsequent razing of the Kasr. Now an aura of death hung over the desolate ruins; and no-one wanted to get any closer than they already were.

Huddled against his father's shoulder, Peter sniffed, blinking when the wind ruffled his salt-stained hair. Not a word had been spoken, either by him, his father, or any of the Highlanders, who were a stone's throw away, and two short of their original number. Without rifle or cover, the Gellens lounged around idly, their spirits drained by the harrowing escape from the ship. Peter realised for the first time how young some of them were, being much closer to his age than Woulter's. The subtle hints of apprehension in their faces and nervous glances at the sky were slowly filling Peter's heart with dread. Had any of them retained their folding spades, they would have dug holes in the sand. Even a few feet down Peter would have felt safer and less exposed to the open skies.

"Dad…?" Peter's eyes were on the civilians. He was freezing without his greatcoat, and the soaking his wool uniform received left it stained with salt, and far itchier than usual. He wanted to try and beg for another layer of clothing.

"No, Peter," Woulter said stolidly.

"I'm cold."

"So am I," Woulter put an arm around Peter's shoulders and rubbed them.

"Let's move inland."

"We're waiting for the stickie to return. She will lead us somewhere safe."

"Will the Highlanders be with us?"

"I don't know."

"I wanted to ask them for food…"

"The Highlanders?"

"Them, down there."

"They have nothing left. Don't sympathise with them, they are imperial citizens. We are not. An unarmed mob can be dangerous too, especially if they are looking for an outlet to vent their distress on."

"But we didn't do this to them."

"It doesn't matter. We are their enemy. That is all they wish to see."

"But it isn't true, is it?"

Woulter was about to reply when a shadow fell across him. Glancing behind Peter, Woulter saw the Stickie had returned. "About damn time," he muttered. Seeing the hooded stickie towering over him, Peter shrunk away. He had never seen a woman that tall before, for she was well over six foot; six four maybe? "Wait here, Peter."

"Where are you going?" Peter asked when his father got up from the sand.

"Stay here. Call if there's trouble," Woulter said, leaving Peter staring after him. Over in the Highlanders' group, a few eyed the stickie warily. Callum Lorne, his arms folded, rested his head on his chest, his white face unreadable.

Conscious of the Gellens' thinly disguised hostility towards the xeno, Woulter accompanied the stickie through the dunes. "What did you find?" he asked, struggling to keep up with her long strides. The hobnailed boots he wore were still damp on the inside from the swim, and his socks smelt terribly. What was worst though was the sand finding its way into the tiniest gaps, and settling between his toes. Underfoot he struggled to find traction on the sand, while the stickie seemed to glide over it with minimal effort.

"A razed city, and ghosts," the stickie said mysteriously.

"No food, water?" Woulter hobbled up a short but steep slope after her, having to stoop and use his hands to climb the final leg.

"Everything was gone. Stolen, torn-up, or blasted into ruin."

"Damn," Woulter tutted, drawing his collar up tighter around his neck in the wake of a fierce gust of wind that sailed over the tall, sharp stalks of grass.

Drawing her hood tighter around her face, the stickie said, "the horde that dealt the final blow is encamped outside the city, on the far side of the road. The main body of the Chaos Army has already departed."

"In what direction?"

"The tracks indicate they chose a southerly direction. The mountainous region to the east is impassable to tanks; they would prefer the open plains to the south."

"Will that leave our path east clear?" The stickie said nothing, annoying Woulter. "Hello?"

"Questions. All that ever streams from your mouths are questions," the stickie looked back at Woulter. A single bright eye, the one that was strangely dilated, could be seen beneath her hood, the other was in shadow. "Nothing is certain. Plans set in motion are unmade with drastic ease."

"You don't know then. You came back though, didn't you? That's something. Why not just make off, leave us in the lurch? We're not really a unit with any particular skill, least we weren't before. I'm just trying to get Peter and myself through alive. He's all I have. Is that why you let him go, back on the ship because I told you he was my son?"

"It is against the code of my people to harm children."

"Agreed, it's disgusting. There's no honour in it."

"And you will find none here." The stickie, slightly ahead of Woulter, halted.

Struggling up a near-sheer knoll, Woulter climbed upwards clumsily, then stopped dead, gobsmacked. "It was just like this on the other side of the river," he panted, his face flushed from the exertion. Thousands of prisoners, most of them khaki-clad Cadians, sat in the fields between the sand dunes and the highway. Woulter could not quite believe how close these thousands – tens-of-thousands – of men were. The complete lack of noise was deeply troubling, and the saddened, pitiful looks on the faces of the men – women too – haunting. Immediately Woulter wanted to turn tail and go back to Peter, and get him and the Highlanders to move far away from the sea of PWs, lest they be mistaken for the enemy and be thrown in with them. The stickie however made her way down from the dunes in a brazen display of confidence, and strode along a raised bank that cut through the PWs. "Have you no fear?" Woulter voiced his concern when more than a few heads turned in their direction.

"My fear is my concern. Act as if you belong."

Self-consciously aware of his modesty in regards to equipment, Woulter kept his eyes on the stickie's back for the entire time. A sentry leaning idly on the barrier bordering the two-lane highway picked up his bayonetted M-36 and slung it over his shoulder when they approached. "Who the hell are you?" he said, craning his neck to try and see what was underneath the stickie's hood. "That a pris'ner?" he frowned at Woulter.

"Prisoner!" Woulter, impulsively, pushed around the stickie, "STAND UP STRAIGHT WHEN I TALK TO YOU!"

The final layer on the cake was the piercing glare Izuru gave the petrified sentry. She was sure Woulter had given him his first grey hairs after his furious, two-minute-long tirade at his slovenly appearance. "Rather a firm tone you took there," she remarked once they had crossed over the steel barriers that separated the carriageways.

"Bloody hell, I can't remember anything," Woulter, red-faced, groaned. "They all heard, didn't they?"

"Perhaps," Izuru felt the corners of her mouth twitch in amusement.

A skull wearing a black commissar's peaked cap was mounted on a stake beside the far barrier. The red trim appeared to be strangely shiny. Eyeing it cautiously, Izuru saw and smelt the fresh blood on the skull. It had been scraped nearly clean, tiny scraps of flesh remained on the grey bone however.

"Bloody savages," Woulter muttered behind her. It was worse further ahead. The victors, revelling in their triumph over the imperials, were encamped in the countryside to the east of Kasr Hollen. Once green and healthy, the grasslands had fallen underneath the booted heels of Chaos, and like a pestilence they were slowly infecting the land, turning it rotten. Izuru felt the thin, yellowing grass give way to mud underneath her boots, which trod in the footsteps of a thousand others. The Chaos encampment, closer to a shantytown than a military bivouac, was filled with crude tents and yawning marquees bedecked with chains of skulls and surrounded by great mounds of equipment confiscated from the Cadians. The grisly decorations, many still half-skinned, were everywhere. Flying high on poles were the standards of the numerous warbands. A trio of crimson lightning bolts above one tent, a milky white eye in the centre of a blue spider's body above another. The gaping maw of a fat, bloated beast, red on an emerald background, was prominently displayed next to the entrance of a tent draped in chains, the unseen contents of which smelt badly. Tattooed beings, men and women with spiked up hair, piercings, and wearing pieces of Cadian armour scavenged from the mounds of equipment, sat around chatting with one another, smoking, snoozing, or cleaning weapons. A few shrill exclamations of pleasure could even be heard over the general noise. _How depraved humans can be_ , Izuru sighed. Behind her, Woulter snorted in derision and mumbled darkly. Falling into step with Izuru, he asked, "why are we here?"

"You will have a time finding safety with nothing but the clothes on your back," Izuru hissed.

"Agreed. Don't eat the meat. I told Peter not to eat the meat, or anything these people eat."

"I am not here to steal their food, as a thief would. I ask you to trust me, for I shall need you to return to your comrades presently."

"So why did you drag me out here then?"

"I did not ask your presence. You came of your own volition."

"Well what are you going to do then?"

"Armed men have been following us for ten minutes. Take these," Izuru handed Woulter her Vintok and Moses.

"Why—?"

"No more questions. Return to your son. If you hear gunfire, run. Now fly."

Sending Woulter away, Izuru was left empty-handed, exactly as she intended. Pulling back her hood she carried on, keeping herself as conspicuous as possible. Veiny, drug-addled eyes caught sight of the xeno walking in their midst, narrowing in contempt. Animalistic growls came from several onlookers who latched onto her, seething at the pointy-eared xeno and her arrogant demeanour. _And there you are_ , Izuru came to a halt, clasping her hands in front of her when three men, very different from the plethora followers, sauntered over to her. In contrast to the wild, dishevelled appearance of the majority of the Chaos rank and file, these three were armed, wearing body armour, and carried themselves like proper military. The red berets they each wore had silver badges depicting a muscular arm gripping a dagger. The man in the centre – the tallest – so tall he could look Izuru squarely in the eye, came and stood in front of her. The spots of grey in his goatee, as well the pockmarks on both cheeks aged him considerably. Underneath the tightly-moulded beret, his hair was thinning. Picking a cigar from inbetween his teeth, he blew smoke in Izuru's face. The other two men, lasguns held into their chests, moved around behind Izuru. Keeping her breath held, Izuru matched the tall man's steady gaze, never blinking or breaking eye contact. Snorting lightly, the tall man replaced the soggy butt in his mouth and turned, leading Izuru through the tent-city. With her head held aloft, Izuru became aware the rabble of sub-humans was growing thinner, the tighter the confines became. Constructs made entirely of ammunition crates, ten feet high, sprung up around her, forcing the procession into a single file, and reducing the light from the sun into narrow shafts. Soldiers in olive grey and khaki fatigues, kitted out in combat vests and camouflage pieces, wearing a different mix of sand-coloured, green, and red berets looked up from their dice and card games at Izuru. Most displayed little interest in her. Some chuckled. Only one, on inadvertently making eye contact with her, turned away quickly, and took a long drag from a cigarette, muttering something harsh. At an intersection, Izuru noticed a soldier leaning casually against a wall of crates, a heavy section automatic slung at his hip. Turning his head, and without a word or change in expression, the stubber-toting soldier pointed ahead, to Izuru's right. "Not lost are you, Xeno?" a soft voice said from the shadows, when Izuru entered an open space bordered by crates. The speaker was sitting at a small table, and leaning back on his chair with his face in partial darkness from the irregular shafts of sunlight poking through gaps in the crates that were near the ceiling. A glass of alcohol and an ashtray sat in front of him. Two glasses, one not two, were laid out. The three that had escorted Izuru in joined four other men who sat at tables or on ammunition crates in the room's four corners. Left standing alone, Izuru took a pace forwards, remaining silent. The man indicated the chair opposite him. "Are you sure you are in the right war, Xeno?" he said, sitting back on four legs and reaching for his glass. His thin face was as equally thin as his body, but however small and wiry the man was, he gave off an aura of command, and respect. Underneath his brows were grey eyes, the same colour as his hair, shaved almost to the skin. His head was marked with scars, a very prominent one running down his right temple and splitting his cheek. Another, redder, more recent, cut his upper lip. Uncorking the bottle, the scarred man poured an amount into his own glass, before supplying the other. Sliding it over to Izuru's side, he picked up his drink and, taking a cigarette from his mouth and laying it the ashtray, drank slowly. "Because I have not seen a single stickie out there," he remarked, shaking his head subtly. "Won't you have a drink with me? Or don't xenos partake?"

Taking the glass, Izuru, meeting the other's narrowed eyes, tilted it backwards into her mouth and drank down the pale gold liquid. Immediately a fire arose in her belly. Somehow she kept a stern outward resolve, channelling her constitution into quickly suppressing the urge to throw up, manifesting in a slight tremor in her chest and a twitch in her eye. The scarred man smiled wryly, "perhaps xenos are not such good drinkers; a pity. Cyr is five feet under with snow this time of year. We sought a more favourable climate, perhaps you did too, else why would you be here on your own?" Izuru blinked once. Her throat was racing from the unfamiliar taste, and she worried that if she spoke it would come out a choking rasp. "Except you're not here alone, are you? You certainly weren't when you entered my camp," the scarred man continued, setting his half-drunk glass down on the tabletop and picking up his gently smoking cigarette. "I would not worry too much, we let him go. But I bet you are wondering how this human knows so much. Truth is nothing happens in this camp without the Man of a Thousand Lives knowing."

"One life is all I need," said Izuru quietly.

"Have you no fear of death, Xeno?"

"Death holds little appeal."

"Stabbing," the scarred man pointed at the split in his cheek. "Gunshot," he turned his head to show a round red mark near his crown. "Hanging," he raised his head, drawing a line around his neck from ear to ear, across an uneven mess of scar tissue. "Your people tried to flay me once as well. The cracking of the whip was more painful to hear than the lick of it across my back. I would show you but…"

"You are familiar with Corsairs. The beings in black are notorious for their love of flogging. I worked for them once. I cannot say it was a positive experience."

"Your previous occupation was not fulfilling enough? Hm, shame. We seek fulfilment wherever the money's best."

"Not from a grudge against the Imperium? The other humans outside don't seem to share that."

"No grudges. The Imperium, Chaos, we fight for whoever's paying. And besides, it's the beginning of the season, a perfect time for a little paid work." The scarred man waved his hand vaguely, "those piss-drinkers outside, they are not affiliated with us. We keep them supplied with drugs, livestock, and they go where we tell them to. As long as they get to kill imperial guardsmen at the end of the day, maybe a few civvies, they they're happy. The money's what keeps us here. Only problem is, the booze is poor and the women…" the scarred man glanced at his hands and tutted, "pox-ridden sluts. It's a shame we can never have all three."

"Then leave. Seek a more profitable arrangement. Why do you stay?"

The scarred man smiled, downing his drink in one. "It's good business. How else would we earn our pay? Besides, we have orders to follow."

"I would have words with your financer."

"Aha, no no, you don't get to meet the money. We sent a man, must've lost his head along the way. We found it in a ditch – those pigs out there found it, I mean – started playing that kids game, kicking it around with their feet. Savages…"

"You chose to work for Chaos?"

"Choice is a liberty few men possess. I can choose to have you sent back outside alone if I wanted. I am sure a great many out there would appreciate seeing you beaten, tortured, and mutilated."

"Why are we having this conversation then?"

"You chose to come in here, you made that choice."

"Your men made that choice."

"Oh no, they are here for your protection. It can get a little rough out there. People get hurt from time to time."

 _An understatement._

"Speak then. I sense you have a proposition."

"Ha-ha," the scarred man waved a finger. "You can tell what I am thinking. Can you tell what I am thinking?"

Truth be told, Izuru had no idea what the scarred man was thinking. "You are mercenaries, am I correct in that assumption? How would you respond to a foreigner's request to work for you?"

Taking a long drag from his faintly glowing cigarette, the scarred man stubbed it in the ashtray. "You speak good Gothic. Learned from a young age?"

"From strict tutelage."

"Mm, the only way," the scarred man nodded in agreement. "Now about this proposition… you see we do not like xenos, it's the only commonality we share with the vermin outside."

"We?"

"The Second Cyrric Ranger Battalion is by invitation only."

"I am not asking to join your battalion. I am asking to work for you."

"Pfft," the scarred man shrugged. "And what would a female stickie have that I could make use of?"

"I have travelled from one side of this galaxy to the other. I have fought many battles, more than all of you in here combined. Or did your human mind forget how long-lived we are? I am a captain of the Second Ranger Caste of the Craftworld Ulthwé, the Nightspear's Own. You have no idea of the power I wield. Such bodies like yours are bent as easily as they are broken. When I leave this room, it will be without having to lift a finger in my defence."

The abrupt silence that followed was such that Izuru felt the baited breath of every man in the room. Hands holding drinks and cards froze. Eyes fell upon her, waiting for the scarred man's reply. When it came, it was in the form of a bayonet. The blade however was laid gently on the table and left there. "What is the best way to kill a man, with that?" the scarred man nodded down at the six-inch bayonet.

"From behind, with a stab to the kidneys, while choking his windpipe. But why would I face him in hand-to-hand, when I can simply shoot him? Preferably in the back as well."

Swiping the bayonet, the scarred man sheathed it at his waist. "Interesting. You say you command a ranger company. But I do not see any others like you. And I know how deceptive your kind can be. Stop the lies. Tell me why you are here."

"I seek to protect those that would harm my people—"

"No, I think you have already failed in that. Your eyes say different. Have you a deathwish?"

"Deathwish?"

"You seek to die in battle?"

"Were I to fall, it would only be after my mission was accomplished. I am a soldier. My orders are clear."

"You follow all orders?"

"Always."

The scarred man set his empty glass down. "I hope you have a plan, Captain."

"And I hope your men are up to my standards."

"Lysell Talvera," the scarred man leant forwards to shake Izuru's hand. "Honour and fidelity."

"Reap the whirlwind," Izuru replied, matching Talvera's firm handshake.

* * *

 **Kasr Kraf, Cadia Secundus, 07:23**

"It's a major offensive, sir. They just started moving on what looks like an eighty-kilometre-wide front."

The lord castellan looked at the faintly shifting map impassively. It wasn't as though they had not expected this. Intelligence had predicated it twelve hours earlier from Chaos traffic patterns. Creed had exactly four reserve brigades that he could use in the western theatre of operations, which was rapidly closing in on Kasr Stark, which at that exact moment was under heavy artillery and air bombardment, as Kasr Hollen had been.

"Their main axis of attack?" Creed asked his operations officer.

"It, it looks like a general offensive—"

"They're pushing to find a weak point," Creed finished the statement. "And their reserve?"

"Five divisions, two mechanised, three infantry moving south from Kasr Hollen, they appear to be Category-A with Marine units advancing alongside. Once clear of the Korg Mountains they can swing eastwards and join the main attack, which appears to be mainly B formations."

"So Hollen blunted the spearhead, interesting," Creed mused. "If the vanguard is comprised of B units then we may be hurting them more than we originally thought." The intelligence hive, thirteen floors below supreme headquarters, was working hard to establish just what enemy casualties were, and Creed received a report every evening. Category-B units, regular infantry that lacked the A formations' modern arms and equipment, had started appearing at the front three days before, on the thirty-fourth day of the invasion. This turn of events eased Creed's concern somewhat, for, on the imperial side, all Category-A formations were either locked in combat, or recuperating from it.

Out of the 198 divisions on Cadia, 154 of them were Cadian, and every single one was committed, or would very shortly be committed. It left no A-Class units in reserve, only B and C formations. These were regular, non-Cadian units, and Whiteshields. The latter Creed was extremely reluctant to send to the field. Comprised of teenagers that had not seen battle, they were the very last soldiers Creed wanted fighting Marines and other terrors that reputedly stalked the battlefield. It was telling enough that the cream of the Cadian Shock Troops had trouble dealing with even single squads of Marines. The untried Whiteshields would break and run before butting heads with Marines, and Creed had little faith in the B units, whose quality varied greatly.

"What of the north? Highway Seven runs along the southern shores of the Luten. I want to know what uses it."

"Zeke has not directed any armoured units along Seven. Lightly-armed, mobile recce units are probing eastwards as we speak. Kasr Luten is defended two brigades of Ninth Infantry Division, 21st and 26th Brigade, as well as two companies of irregulars: Abhumans. Filthy creatures."

"And when the tide crashes upon Luten's walls, it will be repulsed by Cadian bayonets."

The lord castellan's next decision was not announced publically, but made off-handedly to a senior aide. "Admiral Quarren still holds the skies, does he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have him widen his perimeter around Cadia. I want an unbreachable corridor that will allow traffic to depart the system without fear of enemy retaliation."

"Yes, sir, shall I inform the admiral what the lord castellan intends?"

"All non-essential personnel are to be evacuated immediately to Haven, if that still stands. If not then it will be Belis Corona. Priority shall be given to non-Cadian units. No civilians shall be allowed admittance to the embarkation ships."

"Very good, sir."

"Brigadier, this will not be made common knowledge. We are simply evacuating personnel not critical to the defence of this planet. Cadia stands; and the Cadian Shock Troops will stand with her until the death."

"Cadia stands."

The decision to evacuate Cadia weighed heavy on Creed's heart. His forces were being driven back. The Marines were operating under their own mission tactics, outside the chain of command, and had refused to coordinate their forces with the humans. The Sisters, in the Shrine of Saint Morrican overlooking the Elysion Fields, were silent. The order's twin canonesses, Eleanor and Genevieve, were seemingly too prideful to send their troops into battle, where they were needed most. Dark days were upon Cadia, and it did not look like skies would ever clear.

"My dear lord castellan, I am disappointed," Osvat Radu Zeleska yawned. Many floors beneath the supreme headquarters, the inquisitor lounged in his office. It had been too easy to bug the place, laughably easy, security was so lax. But that might just have been him, for he was used to the challenge, and nothing else satisfied him like a little intelligence gathering, unless it was a good woman, or came in bottle form. "Abandoning Cadia. Nothing more treasonous has ever been spoken."

Zeleska's master, the lord inquisitor, would be most pleased to hear about the lord castellan. Smirking, Zeleska saw himself getting back into his master's good books – and finally! "But Kora," Zeleska's grin vanished, remembering just why he was still on Cadia, even when he had been formally recalled by the lord inquisitor. Resting his head in his hand, Zeleska flicked through the – disparagingly thin – sheaf of documents on Cadia's pylons his contacts had acquired for him. Maddeningly, his high-level clearance was still not high enough to fully access the archive on the pylons; which was highly classified. Magenta-level clearance was required, a full two rungs above Zeleska's Indigo-level authorisation. _Just why give them the names of colours?_ It was so childish, he sighed, absent-mindedly reaching for one of the bottles of amasec he had taken from Creed's cabinet. His hand stopped short when he realised it was empty, as were the other two. "Confound it," he muttered. Still, he had more than half of Creed's cigars left, and they lasted a while. "Where's that secretary of the colonel's?" Zeleska muttered. She was an early riser; all Cadians were. Flicking open his gold-plated lighter, Zeleska held the flame under a fresh cigar. She was a screamer than one, quite a different picture than most Cadians were, spit-and-polish, by-the-book, day-by-day. But, informally, she was alarmingly yet pleasurably wild. _Perhaps I shall linger a while longer. After all, what can they do; send me to Cadia?_

* * *

 **Firebase Rakkassan, 08:09**

"Naw, I hate Cadia. Ain't seen a single animal – and that was _before_ Nemtess even!" Kat exclaimed.

"And you don't think you belong here?" Joe Herle scribbled eagerly on his notepad whilst trying to shield it from the rain.

"Well, shoulda thought about that before I got thrown in the glasshouse for gambling. Honestly I thought it was gonna be my head on the block – _snick!_ "

"Heh! Take it easy, soldier!" Herle went to shake Kat's hand. He was rewarded with a wet hand shooting out from underneath the poncho he wore. "Doesn't it ever stop raining here?"

"Could be worse, we could be fighting in it. Don't think Zeke likes it either!"

"A little young to be drinking, aren't you?" Herle tilted his head to one side when he happened upon Jacklyn Molke, shivering underneath his raincape, sitting half-in, half-out of a bunker.

The flask Molke was drinking from was quickly hidden. "Oh no-no, this is mouthwash," Molke stammered. "I was bullied 'cause of my bad breath, least that's why I think I was bullied."

"Aw, sorry about that," Herle leant against the damp wall of sandbags opposite Molke, and thrust his hands in his pockets.

"You're that one from Photo. Don't think you left a very good impression."

"Oh, why's that?"

"Dunno, I heard Larn beat you up, left you half-dead in the mud," Molke scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Rumours…"

"We just got off on the wrong foot. I said something I shouldn't have, something about Nemtess I gather."

"Mmm, I don't think we're really supposed to talk about that, no-one else does anyway. I, I think it's better to just forget, you know."

"Yeah, I agree. It's all in the past now."

"So you write stories then?"

"Mmm-hmm, got any good ones?"

"Well there was this time I jumped out of a plane, and my gravchute failed to open…"

Housewife resting in my lap, I sniffed, wiping my runny nose on the sleeve of my undershirt. My slightly numb fingers tried to keep a steady, firm hold on needle and thread, which was in the process of sewing a brand new pair of sergeant's stripes onto both sleeves. The damp air was making me shiver slightly more than I thought was normal. What troubled me was the fact I was sweating too. Coupled with recurring headaches, I was feeling quite rotten. The nosy reporter's voice was also the very last thing I wanted to hear nearby. The shadow that blotted out the grey light did not concern me in the slightest; so much I ignored it completely.

"Looking a bit queasy there, young man," Herle said, entering the bunker, and shaking his brand-new fatigues off.

"That it?" I said without looking up.

"Is what it?" Herle paused.

"Go back out there, and do it again."

"What, sorry?"

"You ask permission before you enter my bunker," I said, putting aside my jacket and tugging my flak vest on over my undershirt. "Out," I aimed a finger.

"Not ready to talk about Nemtess then, I take it?" Herle said when I escorted him back out into the rain.

"We don't talk about it," I said, fastening my cover's chinstrap.

"What are you so afraid of? Surely talking about it would help."

"You've never been in combat, 'ave you?" I stopped and faced him. " _Have_ _you?_ "

"Well, no not really."

"That's why we don't talk about it," I turned tail immediately and stalked over to the mess. This time Herle did not follow.

"Larn! How the hell are you?" Mess Sergeant Gale greeted me warmly when I entered the deserted mess, a firm contrast to the evil-eyes Olen Azar shot at me from the kitchen interior. The other two cooks, whom I barely knew, did not express any emotion, ignoring me.

"Rough," I said, sitting at one of the foldout tables opposite the kitchen. Unclipping my chinstrap I tossed my cover onto the surface. It made a loud clunk, out of place in the bustling kitchen.

"Careful, don't want the CSM jumping on your programme," Gale said.

"Hmm?" I struck up a match and lit a cigarette, swivelling on the bench to face Gale.

"You're outta uniform…"

"Nah, just been busy wi' the 'ousewife, putting me three stripes on," I replied.

"Eh, s'a big responsibility, a platoon, and I can just about manage with these three bastard children running around. You looking for some scran?"

"Mmm, starving, Sarn't," I nodded.

"I'll fix you some eggs and a bit o' bacon; sound good?"

"Yeah, proper good," I gave Gale a thumbs up.

"Come up here and watch. If you feel like doing a fry-up any time just feel free," Gale beckoned.

"Fair enough," I went and leant beside the hatch that separated the kitchen and the mess hall to watch Gale at work.

"Simple enough, just a little bit of oil in the pan, crack the shells, and let the insides out. Leave 'em 'til they're fairly solid," Gale instructed, digging the slice underneath the solidifying eggs. "How d'you take your meat?"

"From behind," Azar said loudly enough for me to hear it.

My eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. That was all I gave Azar. Gale on the other hand shot a fierce glance over his shoulder at his second cook. "Did I hear something, Azar?"

"Nah, sergeant," Azar looked at him blankly. "Just talkin' to Scurm."

"It don't matter," I looked down at the bacon frying gently in the pan alongside the eggs.

"Should be just about done now," Gale flipped the rashers over, left it for another minute, then served them onto a metal plate. "Azar, take these 'round to Sergeant Larn."

Sullenly bringing the plate out to me, Azar quickly made sure his back was to Gale before bending down and licking both eggs, leaving a trail of slobber all over them. I made a note of it with mild amusement when I sat down. "No, I know how you like it, Sarn't." Azar sneered. "You like it a bit stickie."

"Jankers, Private?" I replied lightly, as if a mere second cook could intimidate me. "Gale?" I called.

"Problem, Larn?" Gale eyed Azar suspiciously. "Azar hasn't dribbled all over it, has he?"

"Does he make it a regular practise?"

"Azar, back in here please," Gale waggled a finger. "Bring that mess with you."

Quickly I snatched the phlegm-free bacon slices from the plate before Azar could make off with it, and hastily wolfed them down. When he arrived back in the kitchen, the glowering Gale picked up both ruined eggs and slapped Azar in the face with them. "Clean that muck up. KPs for you now, many many of them, Scurm has the authority."

Pink with indignation, and specked with little bits of egg, Azar slunk away. Shaking his head, Gale bent down so he could see me through the hatch, sticking his thumb up at me. Returning the friendly gesture, I popped my cover back on, and doubled out of the mess. Outside the rain was finally easing up, but to my consternation I could hear the thump of guns firing. Zeke was getting closer and closer every day, an unseen, all-powerful threat that swallowed everything up in its path. Rakka soon would find itself under fire from Zeke, and later forced to withstand all-out assault.


	19. Chapter 18

**Firebase Rakkassan, Cadia Secundus, 07:00 (Cadian Time)**

 _"Zero One, this is Three Alpha. Sitrep. Over."_

" _Zero One. Send. Over."_

" _Three Alpha. We have three dead, thirteen wounded, one missing. Callsign Three One, Three Two, and Three Three are being mortared from across the river. Fetch Shelldrake. Over."_

" _Zero One. Say again your last. Over…"_

" _Three Alpha. Fetch Shelldrake. Request fire mission regiment. Over."_

" _Zero One. Negative, all batteries are busy. Over."_

" _Three Alpha. Urgent. Over."_

" _Negative, Three Alpha! Your callsign cannot have the entire regiment. Over."_

" _Three Alpha. My callsign is under fire from enemy mortars. Zeke is within mortar range of my callsign's location. I say again, Zeke is within mortar range of my callsign. Request additional artillery support. Over."_

" _Zero One. Has contact with the enemy been established?"_

" _Three Alpha. Negative. Over."_

" _Zero One. Fire mission denied. Leave control to Shelldrake. Over."_

" _Three Alpha. I again request you fetch Shelldrake. Over."_

" _Zero One. Negative to your request. Over."_

" _Three Alpha… roger. Out."_

 **06:30**

The peaceful stillness at Rakka was violently disturbed by an eerie whine that steadily grew to a piercing crescendo. Many were caught out in the open when the first mortar shells dropped inside the perimeter, exploding with dull thuds that jarred teeth and shook bones. Shrapnel was sprayed outwards, slicing through the thin walls of the wooden huts, embedding into sandbags and bodies unlucky enough to be in the way. The surprise barrage sent men scurrying inside bunkers and leaping down into trenches where they wormed their way as deep as they could into the earth, praying their ceramite covers and bootneck flak jackets would protect them from the steel showers of death that were flying around in deadly clusters. In response to the mortaring, the crew of the company's sole howitzer took to their post and began pumping out round after round, working their piece like automatons, ignoring the shelling even when the howitzer's barrel and gun trails were grazed by stray shrapnel. Their target was a predetermined area on the opposite bank of the river, 4600 yards to the north. The howitzer's response however did not deter the enemy mortars in the slightest, for the rounds kept on falling with rapid precision. Bunkers were hit. Trench walls partially caved in. The company's water supply, stored in a large cylindrical fuel tank, was ruptured in many places. The north-west corner of the command bunker too collapsed inwards.

Taking cover inside the sandbag tower with a large portion of 10 Platoon, I kept my cover pressed down on my head, and my flak jacket, usually two buttons loose, tight up to my collar. The whamming of the mortars rattled the support beams above our heads, dislodging dust and bit of dried earth that leaked from holes in the sandbags. It sounded like waves were crashing on the outside walls, only they were waves of metal that probed desperately, seeking a warm body of blood to bury themselves in and call home. A harsh, grating clang worked the tightly-packed, tense bodies into a frenzy. Someone had been hit!

"Emperor all-bloody mighty!" Kat exclaimed when his fingers probed a shallow dent in the crown of olive-grey cover. "Where is it?" he scrabbled about amidst the tangle of legs and bodies. "Gotcha!" Kat came back up with a squarish piece of shiny black metal. "Ow!" he cried, dropping it immediately when he discovered how hot it was.

"You dossbag!" Draino laughed. "Zeke's given us a present."

"Nah, I think this one's mine!" Kat ripped off his cover and drew a marker, intending to inscribe something on it.

"Kat!" I balled a fist and tapped it on the crown of my netted cover. "Rainin' still outside. Put ye skid-lid where it's s'posed to be."

"Gotta remember the date this happened," Kat flipped the cover around in his hands and showed it to everyone. He had drawn an arrow where the shrapnel had winged him and written the date beside it. "Nice little bit o' luck there."

Before I could reprimand him, a private tugged my sleeve, "Sergeant, one of our lot's still out there."

"Ral," I recognised the medic, who was kneeling alone beside a wounded soldier, still with the mortars landing regularly nearby. "Get under cover, you daft twat!" I shouted at him.

"Come to help?" Ral shouted cheerfully, at the exact moment a shell exploded on top of a bunker scarcely fifty yards away. Where I threw myself into the mud, he was unfazed.

"Pick 'im up," I grabbed the wounded man by the ankles and lifted him easily despite his considerable weight. Ral had hold of him underneath his armpits. It was odd how easy things became with mortars going off closeby. The strain of lifting the heavier man, which I would have normally baulked at, disappeared on the spot. He was as light as a feather during the short dash over to the aid station, which we discovered was already packed with nine other, mostly superficially-wounded, men. Setting the wounded man down gently beside the other cases, I expected Ral to stay where it was safe, but saw he was on his way back outside without even pausing for breath. "Ral?"

"Still lads outside, shouldn't keep them waiting," Ral grinned, hopping back up the steps to the open door.

"Bloody mad," I said inwardly. Reluctant, and remarking to myself just how foolhardy it was, I followed Ral. Whatever charm Ral bore, he had passed it to me, for I remained completely unscathed as I followed him around Rakka, searching for wounded men left in the open. After recovering three others, Ral conceded, and we dashed back to the aid station, our arms numb from all the lifting.

"Nicked you there a bit, mate," Ral touched my forearm gently when we lowered the last man onto a table.

"Hm," I glanced briefly at small slashes on the right sleeve of my jacket.

"Let me look at it."

"Do them first," I jerked my head at the men in worse condition than I was. "Don't worry 'bout me."

"Remember the last time you bought shrapnel?"

Ral earnt a sharp glance from me for that. Subconsciously, my hand closed over my upper chest where the fingernail-sized shard of metal had resided; the thing that almost killed me. The mention of it brought the blood rushing to my ears. As if in a trance, I slunk away and sat in a corner, pressing my back against the wall and resting my head on my arm; suddenly anxious at the vulnerability I had felt whilst in the care of the stickies. Existing, separate from the outside world, I saw the thin, angelic faces of the female stickies crowding around me. They frightened me. The petrified face of the stickie that I had emptied my lungs at frightened me. My screaming frightened me. Out of nowhere, a warm, comforting hand struck me from my dreamlike state. Its owner, seeing my distress, placed his hand on my shoulder. Surprised, and very ashamed that I, a sergeant, had displayed such weak resolve in front of the other ranks, I turned my head away, too embarrassed to look the man in the eye. There was a question, one I had not really considered up until then, but now really started to ponder on. I did not know how long I had in a coma, or even if I had indeed been in a coma. It left the question of whether or not I had been saved from death, before, or after I succumbed to the infection in my body.

 **07:00**

"Sir, sir, there's a bird coming in," Corporal Len Wharton, Major Sebben's signaller, said urgently.

"Order him off!" Captain Meller snapped. _An unannounced visitor, at a time like this_? At least the infernal bombardment had stopped, at precisely 0700 Meller could not help but notice.

Wharton smothered the handset and looked up, astonished, "I did. He told me to go f—to go do one."

"Dammit," Meller muttered.

"Troubling," Staff Sergeant Perandis glowered.

"They say who it is?"

"Negative, sir. ETA is right now."

"Right, come on, Sarn't," Meller grabbed his M-36 and doubled up the stairs, Perandis following.

The Valkyrie, a lightly-armed slick, wobbled gently as it touched down on the LZ, its turbines kicking up a massive downdraft, blowing anything not fastened down away. Through his shielded eyes Meller could see numerous holes in the fuselage and wings, one or two even cutting cleanly through the latter entirely. Those slicks sure could take a beating.

"Bet it's some rear-echelon desk-jockey who got lost on his way to the officers' mess in Jark!" Perandis shouted over the din.

"Yep, looks like you're right," Meller replied when he saw a cleanly-attired Cadian officer hop down from the starboard door and run bent-double over to them. Meller's spirits sank when he saw the black and white nametags on the officer's breast. He also wore full colour insignia on his shoulders, and rank boards. One only needed to glance at him to affirm his rear-echelon status. Further cementing that was his green beret. Only intelligence officers wore berets in that particular shade of green.

"Are you in command here?" the officer said in Meller's ear.

"Yeah, I'm Captain Mik Meller, Cannon Company 2IC. This is my staff sergeant, Perandis."

"Uh, fine, fine. I'm Captain Lyle Ruth."

"You diverted from somewhere, Captain? This is a little irregular. We've just been under mortar attack."

"We, we took fire as we lifted out of Kasr Luten. The colonel and I were returning to Kasr Kraf with…" Ruth broke off. Twisting around, trying to ignore Meller and Perandis' bewildered expressions, Ruth gesture at the slick, the engines of which were slowly spooling down. "We uh… took a few hits. One of the crew is in a bad way."

As he said it, the rear hatch dropped. Two crewmen in Cadian flak vests carried out a wounded comrade. "Sir?" Ral Bleak appeared at Meller's shoulder, his Unit One bag in his hands. "Can I—?"

"Go," Meller nodded, waving him away.

Groups of men who had clambered cautiously out from where they were hiding to see what the cause of the disturbance was flocked nearby. "Probably some out-of-shape bloke with three-inch-thick glasses," Aimo Garst said.

"Oh, I recognise that number," Jacklyn Molke pointed at the slick's chin excitedly. "229, he's one of the pilots who picked us up from the marshes."

"Damn, you've got good eyes."

"Definitely 229."

"I hope he is alright," Cyrano's eyes were grave as Ral Bleak hurried towards the three crewmen with a stretcher. The wounded man appeared to be one of the doorgunners as the pilot and co-pilot were still in their seats. Blood was visible on his olive grey fatigues when the others removed his vest and harness.

"Just a captain? Seems a bit much to commandeer a slick for that," Aimo said, puzzled.

"Who's that?" Molke stood on tiptoes to see over the taller men when someone else stepped off the ramp. Another officer, this one a lieutenant colonel, came out from underneath the shadow of the twin tail booms.

"Oh my…" Aimo's face went blank.

"Well now," Cyrano stroked his beard in wonder.

Molke was silent. His quivering, slackened jaw said everything though.

"Colonel," Captain Ruth greeted his superior officer as she glided across the freshly-overturned mud to where Meller and Perandis stood.

"Lapraik," the officer said, reaching to shake Meller's hand.

 _A lieutenant colonel?_ Meller, on clasping her hand, was taken aback by her firm, but not overly pressing grip. He glanced between her Captain Ruth, alarmed. Colonel Lapraik looked to be in her mid-twenties, and was strikingly, startlingly handsome. Like all Cadians she was dark, with purple eyes and a strong chin. Ruth must have been an exception for he was especially weak-chinned, but still had the eyes. Beside Meller, Perandis eyed the colonel warily.

Shuffling closer, Aimo, Molke, and Cyrano tried to get a closer look at the colonel, who was conversing with Captain Meller and the other officer she had arrived with. It looked like Meller was having a hard time concentrating on the colonel, who was explaining loudly that their ship had taken fire from a VAK autocannon on the other side of the river, damaging them enough that they had to set down. Though they had not seen the VAK, they had managed to spot the mortars that were firing on Rakka, and could provide coordinates to artillery.

"W-well, Colonel, I-I tried calling for a fire mission when we were first hit thirty minutes ago, but Zero One confirmed that all batteries were busy elsewhere."

"Very well. We had best hurry, Zeke will be withdrawing the mortars. I want Redleg to catch them in the act."

"What are you lot staring at here?" Perandis glared at Aimo, Molke, and Cyrano.

Aimo spoke, "sorry, Sarn't. Uh, we wondered whether the colonel…"

"What is the meaning of this?" Lapraik strode around Meller and faced the three. "Are you supposed to be here?"

"Um, sir – ma'am – sorry, we just wondered whether Captain Meller wanted any help with anything," Aimo said.

"No thanks, Corporal."

"Um, sir, could you ask the colonel to say something?"

"Say what, Corporal?" Lapraik's eyes passed between Aimo, the young boy Molke, and the bearded brute in the odd fur hat whom she regarded with curiosity.

"Anything."

"Anything at all," Cyrano added.

"Alright, that's enough," Meller stepped in. "Corporal Garst, take these men back to your platoon."

Lapraik held up a hand. "I am Lieutenant Colonel Lapraik. I am in intelligence. Is that enough, soldier?"

"Please, ma-am. You don't know how nice that is, hearing a woman's voice—"

Meller glanced at Perandis. "Alright, Corporal, back to your platoon," the sergeant said firmly.

"Colonel, the CP's this way." Meller led Lapraik and Ruth down into the bunker.

"It's been nine months since I heard a woman's voice," Molke said giddily. "A real woman's voice."

"Nah, that weren't a woman," Perandis said from behind them. "That was an officer. There are no women in the guard, only soldiers and officers. You run along now 'fore I get you filling sandbags for the major's bunker."

Kat, keeping off to one side, bounded up to Aimo, Cyrano and Molke, an expression of wonderment on his face. "Who was that lumpy-jumper there then?"

"A light colonel. She's green slime," Aimo replied.

"Didn't see her face too good, only saw her from behind. Still, not complaining, with a view like that; nice round arse. Damn, it's been too long," Kat grinned mischievously. "What about her face, her tits?"

"She was young for a light colonel," Cyrano muttered. "I have yet to meet a colonel in their twenties." Louder, to Kat he said, "purple eyes; strange."

"But her tits."

"Huge," Molke piped up.

"Don't be daft. They only look big 'cause of her jacket," Aimo snapped. "You never even seen any either. Your mum don't count!"

"Nice and tight? Looked that way. Hmm, might have to go to my bunk," Kat laughed. "Where's Larn at. Wonder what he'd think?"

"Yeah, where is he?" Aimo wondered.

"Hm, maybe he is shy," Cyrano shrugged.

"Oi!" Ral ran up behind them. "Before you go mouthing off about Sergeant Larn. He was with me out here, helping to carry wounded lads back to the aid station. He took some shrapnel whilst you were all burying your heads in the mud."

Aimo, hearing that, gave a grunt of concern and took off for the aid station.

* * *

"Feed these coordinates to the artillery…" Colonel Lapraik stood over a map, spread out on the table before her. "…Alpha-Oscar four-seven-seven niner-four-fiver."

Corporal Wharton, his ear to the handset, relayed the coordinates to the artillery at Kasr Jark. All batteries were now standing by, funnily enough. He was not sure what sort of magic the colonel had worked there, but it had taken only a little back-and-forth between the controller and her before a fire mission was authorised.

"Keep that line open to the AOP," Lapraik said to her own signaller, a specialist that had brought his own vox in from the slick.

"Roger, one fired," the controller came back to Wharton.

"Redleg confirms. One fired for range."

"Artillery on the way," the specialist said the AOP. A pause then, "AOP shellrep. Eighty meters south of the target."

Wharton relayed the shellrep to the artillery, who swiftly confirmed it.

"Adjust and fire for effect," Lapraik looked up at Wharton.

"Adjust and fire for effect."

"Redleg, wilco."

Wharton imagined the long black muzzles of the basilisks pointing skywards, the initial blast of smoke and sharp thunderclap, and the storm of black specks, visible by eye, soaring through the air upwards, before levelling out and falling back down to earth; right on the heads of the unsuspecting mortar crews.

"Good effect on target, Three, you won't be hearing any more from those guys," the AOP came back.

"Outstanding," Meller grinned. "Thanks for that, Colonel."

"Just doing my job, Captain," Lapraik brushed him off coldly, straightening her tunic. "Captain, find out from the gunship crew how long it will be before they can fly us out."

"Yes, Colonel," Ruth saluted then left the CP.

"Colonel, we don't really…" Meller began before Lapraik interrupted.

"Your dress code is remarkably lax, Captain. I do not see a single badge of rank, or any form of identification on your battledress. Why?"

"Colonel," Meller glanced at Wharton and the specialist momentarily. Lapraik had folded her arms across her chest and was awaiting an explanation. Had the heat risen just now? Meller wondered, pulling the topmost button on his flak jacket loose. "Colonel, certain facts must be appreciated when out in the field. It's all different from being in an office…"

"Why, why should it be any different?"

"Zeke forces us to be different. We don't salute in the field. It makes officers a target for snipers and observers. Anything conspicuous we cover up or remove," Meller pointed at Lapraik's chest. Instantly he regretted it, turning red when he realised he had pointed at her breasts rather than the nametag above them. "Insignia, branch of service, little bits like that," he continued, hoping he had not sounded too tongue-tied.

"Anything else?" Lapraik said stonily.

Meller had an idea. "Would the colonel appreciate a hands-on demonstration then? Cadians are always up for live-fire exercises. If you stick around for a little while, Cannon Company will only be too happy to demonstrate with Zeke once he pokes his head up."

"I am afraid that will not be possible, Captain. I am on an important errand for the lord castellan. We are expected back at Kasr Kraf within forty minutes, an appointment I shall sadly not be able to keep at this rate. The LC will be most displeased."

"Well I would say the colonel's presence here has provided a much needed boost in morale. It would be a shame to depart so quickly."

"And what does that mean, Captain?" Lapraik's expression turned icy. Meller's resolve withered under her intense gaze.

Removing the cigarette from behind my ear, I pushed up my shirt sleeve and looked at the grey-white bandage that was wrapped around my forearm. I had not made a sound over the little shards of metal Ral picked out of my arm. When he asked whether or not it hurt, I shrugged and raised my arm higher for him to wrap a bandage around. My only concern was not of the wound, but Aimo's worrying. He had thundered down the steps, into the aid station, and immediately pounced on me when I attempted to light up. "Heard you took some lead," Aimo peered at my arm anxiously. "Them scablifters get it all out?"

"Yeah, what's yer point?" I said casually.

"Well, last time…" Aimo tried to lift my arm up to see underneath it.

I slapped his hand away and put the cigarette in my mouth. "Nothin' doing," I grunted. "S'a scratch."

"Doesn't hurt?"

"Nah," I shook my head.

"Alright," Aimo punched my shoulder gently. "Hah, was worried there."

"Hmph." I let him hold his own lighter underneath my cigarette then took a drag.

"Lost my packet. How'd you get more?"

"Bit o' buckshee kit," I said, passing the smoke to Aimo. Further elaborating, I waggled a Volg .45 stub pistol that was holstered at my waist, underneath my flak jacket. I had spoken to the company quartermaster sergeant, who had issued me with sidearm, coloured smoke grenades, and a pair of battered field glasses. When questioned on the company's logistical situation, CQMS shrugged and explained, in less than polite terms, that Cannon was very low in the supply chain. It was a miracle that we even had a handful of modern Kantrael lasguns to issue. The rest of our arms and equipment was near-obsolete compared to the state-of-the-art gear that was standard in the Cadian divisions.

A foursome in olive grey flight suits were hovering around the table Ral was working on. Laid out was an unconscious fifth man whom Ral kept shaking his head at. "Irv gonna be okay, Doc?" A tall, broad-shouldered warrant officer asked. His voice was calm and level, though the agitated way he was wringing his hands suggested otherwise. His friends were in similar states of anxiety. One was wiping tears from his eyes.

"He'll be fine, pal," Ral glanced up. "The shrapnel went in and out cleanly. He needs a hospital though. You can fly him back yourself."

"His name's Irv. Irv Sice," the red-eyed crewman sniffed.

"Irv, okay. If it's alright with you, WO, I would like to put our dead and wounded on your bird."

"Absolutely. The colonel might take some persuading though. We were supposed to fly her back to Kasr Kraf. With her party aboard, the wounded might not all fit."

"If you please, tell her it would mean the difference between life and death for some of these boys," Ral pleaded. "Please make that absolutely clear to her."

"Alright. I'm Hugh Waldo by the way," the warrant officer shook Ral's, now gloveless, hand. "We'll get your boys home for you. That's a promise."

Shortly afterwards, Waldo approached the colonel in the company CP. Her reply came swiftly, to his surprise. "Very well. Deliver those men to Kasr Jark then return here at once."

"Roger that, colonel," Waldo let out a short sigh once he left the CP, relieved the officer had needed little convincing. It was time to be off.

Captain Meller listened to the roar of the Valkyrie's engines, slowly fading away to the east. "Kasr Luten's on our left flank, Colonel," he said, turning to face Lapraik. "They're still there, aren't they?"

Lapraik folded her arms and bent over the map. "Because of the proximity to the river, and the enemy, it was the LC's decision to pull all callsigns out of Luten…"

"Creed pulled our left flank back, without telling us here?" In growing disbelief Meller laid a finger on the grey hexagon that was Kasr Luten. "And what happens to us?"

"Nothing. Your orders still stand, Captain," Lapraik said calmly. "Hold."

"I'm struggling to see what gains could be made by withdrawing from Luten, because it seems like our left flank just upped and scarpered. Now what happens when Zeke exploits this, takes Luten, and advances on the high ground to our west. There are five hills here directly west of us. We've got an OP on Hill 558, the rest are unoccupied. If Zeke makes a play for these hills, he'll have all of them. We cannot defend from up there."

"Yes, your concerns are noted, Captain. Permanent positions are being constructed in the Korg Mountains, the centrepoint of which is the dam. The pass is narrow and easily defensible. The only major concern is whether or not Chaos has the resources to mount an amphibious assault across the reservoir."

"Fine, fine. You've got a plan, now what about us? There's more than one firebase in this area, Jark too is south-west of us. Are you sure opening the way for Zeke was the wisest decision to make."

"Watch yourself, Captain," Lapraik said softly. "You are not alone out here."

"No." Meller shook his head, "I think we are alone out here. And I think you're hanging us out to dry."

"The Marines of the Dark Angels chapter have occupied this battlecruiser just your east. Jark is providing artillery support. You have little to worry about, Captain. Be grateful that your firebase is in a quiet sector."

"Have you seen the Marines at all? Because I haven't. And if you think they'll raise a finger to help us, then…" Meller snorted, "you're dead wrong, Colonel. Tell me we are expendable. That's the impression I'm getting."

"The loss of your firebase, the others in this chain, and Kasr Jark are acceptable. They are acceptable losses, Captain."

Seething inwardly, Meller spoke through gritted teeth, "I've got 150 boys here to take care of—"

"All dead. You must be thankful that they shall receive such deaths suited for fighting men, Captain. The emperor protects."

Speechless, Meller paced around the table. He had no words to use, at least none he could use in front of a light colonel. "Then perhaps you would like to share it with us, Colonel," he muttered.

"I think not, Captain. I will tell you now that I shall be reporting your behaviour to your commanding officer."

"Tell him the rest of the pencil-pushers can come down here and die for the emperor too, _sir_."

Clasping her hands behind her back, Lapraik stood upright and looked ready condemn. "Do you know what I think, Captain…"

Before Lapraik could tell Meller exactly what she thought, Wharton, slouching in his seat, stirred. "Sir, Captain, Mister Corta for you," he exclaimed, lifting up the handset.

"S'cuse me, Colonel," Meller rushed over to Wharton, thankful something had excused him. "Three. Send. Over."

" _Three Three Alpha. Contact. Wait. Out_."

"My twelve platoon just got contact," Meller said to Lapraik. "Inform Zero One, Callsign Three Three just made visual contact with the enemy," he ordered Wharton.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Colonel, looks like you'll be getting that hands-on demonstration after all," Meller rubbed his hands eagerly together. "Good of Zeke to oblige us. Shall we?"

"STAND-TO!"

The order, rapidly passing up and down 12 Platoon's sector was conveyed to 11 and 10 Platoon's sectors by vox and runner. Streams of men, hastily buttoning flak jackets and fastening chinstraps, rushed to assume firing positions inside bunkers and on firesteps, readying rifles, lasguns, and automatics. "Stand to, you lot!" Aimo assembled his section and got them to spread out along the defensive wall. "Rekyl in the centre, rifleman on the flanks. Where's that Castra?"

"Get ready, boys," Lieutenant Corta hurried along the trench, M-36 in one hand, field glasses in the other. "On the command. Wait for the command. Ready the Fifty Cal!"

"Where are they?" a scared private, clutching his M-36 to his shoulder tightly, gasped.

"Beats me," another, the section Rekyl gunner, said, chambering his weapon.

Aimo glanced his way and noticed the Rekyl's bolt was only halfway forward. "Private!" he made a pushing motion with his hand. "Sort your weapon out."

"Got it," the gunner corrected his mistake. "Sorry, Corp."

"Corporal." The section's Castra was brought up, its operator wearing two bandoliers of 40 millimetre ammunition.

"Right, you got enough ammo?"

"Yeah."

"Set up a firing position, wait for the command."

With his section in position, Aimo propped his own M-36 up on the firing step, and unslung his glasses from where they hung around his neck. "Where are you?" he breathed, scanning the distant treeline.

Lieutenant Simon Corta too was watching the treeline from his bunker. He himself had not seen Zeke. It had been a lookout that had shouted, _enemy, enemy_ , loudly, prompting him to contact company headquarters without first affirming whether it had indeed been Zeke the sentry had spotted, or just an oddly shaped tree. _Was I wrong?_ Corta breathed through his teeth, weighing up his choices. He did not want to seem like a wet blanket jumping at the smallest shadows by immediately reporting the vaguest possible sighting of Zeke to the captain. "Are you sure?" he asked the lookout that had called contact for the seventh time.

"Yes, sir, I'm telling you, I saw vehicles through the trees. Lot of them," the lookout said earnestly.

"Infantry?" Corta scanned again. Nothing was moving either inside the trees, or in the area beyond, which was just within sight.

"Just vehicles."

"How many?"

"Don't know, sir. I saw maybe four. I-I don't know…"

"Sir, mortars standing by," Corta's signaller ducked inside the bunker. "Ten and Eleven Platoon are standing-to."

"Call Three, ask if the OP has anything."

"Roger," the signaller spoke into a handset taped up in a clear plastic bag, "Three, this is Three Three…"

"Fifty Cal ready, sir!" the gunners shouted from the sandbagged roof above Corta's head.

"Hold your fire!" Corta leant out of the bunker door and shouted down the line. "All sections hold your fire 'til I give the order!" To the white-faced lookout, Corta said, "back to your section now, Private."

"Sir, the OP has not called contact," Corta's signaller said. "Nor have Ten and Eleven Platoon."

"Dammit," Corta tutted and jammed the rubber eyepieces into his face again. He was beginning to think it was a false alarm, and the sentry had been too jumpy. Punishment would be swift, and the sentry would very shortly be finding himself stirring a barrelful of burning shit.

Dark smudges, squarish, and out of place in the dense trees were moving. The sentry had not been making it all up, Corta realised. In the distance he now heard vehicle engines. "Contact front! Enemy in the trees!"

"Get ready, lads!" Corta's platoon sergeant, Molchan called, aiming his .338 at the trees. There were noises of excitement from some, looks of apprehension from others at the thought of finally seeing action. Those visibly fearful muttered to themselves. Final prayers were said, tiny promises made, and oaths sworn. This was it. Zeke was opening his maw, and baring his teeth.

"What the…?" Corta watched as a single four-tonne truck, a Hennus, rolled forwards from the trees. It was towing an anti-aircraft gun mounted on bogies, and did not appear to be aware of how close it was to an enemy firebase. Behind it, in single file, came more Hennus's, all in non-descript OG. Some were towing AA guns, some presumably bore troops. This was not an attack force, this was an anti-aircraft battalion.

"Shall we open fire, sir?" Sergeant Molchan called.

"Uhh…" Corta hesitated.

"Sir, Captain Meller for you." Corta was passed the vox handset.

" _Three. Three Three Alpha, have you made visual contact with the enemy? Over."_

"Three Three Alpha. Affirmative. Enemy Ack-Ack battalion sighted two hundred and fifty yards north of my callsign. Over."

" _Three. What do you mean Ack-Ack battalion? Over."_

"Three Three Alpha. Enemy is mobile with towed Ack-Ack guns. They have not deployed, and do not seem to be aware of our presence at this time. Over."

" _Three. Can you affirm their identity? Over."_

"Three Three Alpha. Negative. Unable to tell at this time." _Confound it,_ Corta covered the handset and swore, snatching another look at the AA battalion. Even through his glasses there was no way of telling just whose side they were on. Both Zeke and friendly used the ubiquitous Hennus very frequently. _They must be battlefield captures then_ , Corta guessed. They had not yet been cannibalised and defaced. But still the little nagging doubt persisted. "Get Three Alpha to confirm whether there are any friendly callsigns to the north of Rakka," Corta said to his signaller. "Fast."

"Got a clear shot on Zeke, sir," the stubber gunner said flatly.

Two hundred yards, well within the range of rifles and lasguns, and still the trucks maintained their speed and direction. "Anything?" Corta's patience was wearing thin. The tension at being held back from firing was beginning to put strain on some, whom were sweating underneath their covers.

"Negative. No friendly callsigns to our immediate north, sir."

"Did you get Captain Meller to confirm that? Did he confirm it?" Corta's voice rose in agitation.

"Affirmative, sir. Three Alpha confirms, no friendly callsigns north of Rakka."

"Do we have permission to engage, sir?" Sergeant Molchan was looking to Corta.

Taking one last look at the half-dozen Hennus's, Corta drew breath, and gave the fire order. Instantly the report from the .50 Cal firing on top of the bunker drowned out all other noise. Scarlet tracers, bright even in sunlight, punched through the engine grill of the lead Hennus, making the driver wrench the truck sideways. Along the firing line, IM rifles barked, lasguns made their higher-pitched whine, Rekyls chattered, and Castras made their distinct cough. The hail of gunfire had the effect of awakening a sleeping being by kicking them hard between the legs. Unaware of the danger they had brought on themselves, the vehicles scattered, their lumbering flight pursued by relentlessly. _Twelve Platoon had good effect on target_ , Corta imagined writing in the after-action report. Six trucks, three 20 millimetre VAK anti-aircraft guns, and an unknown number of Zeke prosecuted during the action. Corta watched closely as one of the Hennus, unscathed, screeched to a halt. _Are they dismounting now? It's a little late for that_ , he looked on as the driver-side door was thrown open, and a figure jumped down.

A figure in bright khaki; Cadian khaki.

"…No," Corta said numbly. The thumping of the Fifty Cal could still be heard above his head. Jumping up, Corta pounded on the wooden planks, screaming at the gunners to cease fire. The gunners were unable to hear him, and the weapon continued to shoot up the Cadian trucks.

"CEASE FIRE!" Corta flung himself from the bunker and grabbed Molchan's shoulder. The sergeant, for an instant unaware, got the picture immediately and began bellowing at the top of his voice, physically hauling men who continued to shoot, unaware of their targets were friendly, down from the firestep. Corta, clambering up onto the bunker rooftop kicked and punched at the two gunners furiously to get them to stop. "NO, CEASE FIRE!"

Abruptly the gun stopped. Both gunners looked up at their raging officer, bewildered. "Sir, what have we done?"

"Nothing," Corta rubbed his ringing ears. "You did nothing. I gave the order."

"Oh my…" the gunner slumped over his weapon, sobbing. His mate hugged him.

Looking down at the stunned faces of 12 Platoon, Corta's heart lurched at the smoking weapons, and the piles of spent brass scattered about the trench floor. He could have shot himself there and then. Clenching his fists tightly, Corta climbed back down inside his bunker. The word was out now, and there was not a single man that did not regret what had just happened. A few were slumped against the sandbag parapet, resting their heads on their arms. Some were wiping tears from their eyes. A few stoic, hardened individuals sat alone, silently smoking, mulling over the incident. Pain stabbed at Corta when he sat down alone. A horrid, gut-wrenching pain that had ahold of his stomach and would not let go, rather squeezing maliciously, bringing up the half-digested food out onto the floor by his feet. Retching quietly, Corta wiped his mouth and shivered. _Goodbye, Simon_ , _your career is over,_ his inner-self mocked.

"Sir?" the signaller was there, holding the vox handset out. "Captain Meller for you."

"What's your name, Private?" Corta asked weakly.

"Lewis, sir."

"Thank you, Lewis." Corta took hold of the plastic bag and tucked it into his ear, the words _blue-on-blue_ echoed ominously in his mind. "Three-Three Alpha," Corta said, clearing his throat.

" _Three. Sitrep_."

"Three Three Alpha…" Corta throat tightened. Sticking his fist in his mouth, he said, "It was blue-on-blue…"

 _Blue-on-blue_.

Mik Meller's jaw dropped. The expectancy was swept away in an instant, replaced with a cold fear.

" _I-I say again_ ," Corta's voice was audibly straining to remain level. " _It was a blue-on-blue situation, sir…_ "

Meller's shut his eyes. His hand closed over his mouth. Swallowing, he said calmly, "Three. Three Three Alpha, report to my callsign's location at once. Out."

Gently, precisely, Meller returned the handset to Wharton. He looked deeply troubled, Wharton remarked. It was in direct contrast to the colonel's calm indifference. "Sir?"

"Nothing, Wharton," Meller said glumly, before turning to the colonel.

"The engagement was successful?" Lapraik's hands were firmly clasped behind her back.

Meller would not meet her eyes, electing to stare despondently at the table map. "There was an accident. Twelve Platoon misidentified a Cadian anti-aircraft battalion. I don't know the extent of the damage done."

"Very well. Order the officer guilty to report to the company command post immediately so that punishment can be served."

"No," Meller said coldly. "You are not in my chain of command, _Colonel._ Don't presume you can order me around because you can't. Now be a good desk-jockey and let me deal with the affairs of this company." Those last words he practically spat.

"This will be your first and last command, Captain. I will make that plain to you now," Lapraik said politely.

"We can't fall any further than this. And you won't punish my officer. It falls to me to make the decisions here, and you will find that I am guilty, therefore any punishment shall be bestowed upon me and no one else."

"If that is what you wish, Captain. I will be making a full report to the LC's staff." Lapraik retreated to a chair in the corner of the room and sat down to take notes.

Meller accepted the ashen-faced Corta into the CP and offered him a chair. "You will need to provide testimony in the report, Lieutenant," Meller said.

"Yes, sir," Corta's voice was little above a whisper.

"Responsibility was mine—"

"Sir, I gave the fire order—"

"I am the acting commanding officer. I have taken full responsibility for your platoon's actions. Do not speak of this to anyone else, Lieutenant. You carried out my orders, you heard the fire order given over the vox, and you complied."

"Yes, sir."

"Sergeant Molchan can take over the running of the platoon if—"

"No, sir," Corta wiped his nose, shaking his head.

"Very well. Let's have your report by midday. Dismissed, Lieutenant."

"Lack of morale fibre," Lapraik commented from the corner of the dugout after Corta had gone. "No Cadian would permit such a disgraceful showing."

"No, sir," Meller leant forwards on the table and clasped his hands together. When he spoke it was without disguising the bitterness in his voice. "No blue forces were to our north. Zero One confirmed this. Something went wrong…"

"Accidents happen in war, Captain."

"And you oughta know, Colonel! You're green slime after all, aren't you?" Meller banged a fist against the tabletop. "Our first action of the war, a bloody blue-on-blue situation, all because one of _your_ Cadians read a map wrong and couldn't be bothered to properly ID himself!"

"That's quite enough, Captain," Lapraik rose to her feet and paced towards him wearing a sharp expression. "I shall see your OC relieves you of command the moment he returns to this company. Perhaps he can institute proper disciplinary proceedings? After all I am not in your chain of command, and am merely an observer."

"Yes, Colonel," Meller threw her a dirty look. "Wharton. Get all platoon leaders here at once, with the exception of Mister Corta. Ask for Sarn't Molchan instead."

* * *

The CP was hushed when I trotted down the steps and ducked underneath the low doorframe. 10 Platoon had only glimpsed the half-dozen vehicles, on the extreme right flank of their sector, and did not engage when it appeared they were not deployed for combat. Furthermore the range made identification impossible. They could very well have been Cadians, which made 12 Platoon's aggressive response all the more alarming. _Did they know they were engaging allies?_ I wondered, when word spread, in the aftermath of the action, that the supposed Zeke anti-aircraft battalion was actually Cadian. _How could the platoon commander have had such a bad lapse in judgement?_ I counted six burning vehicles once the shooting stopped. The three VAK guns had been put out of commission too. Personnel casualties were unconfirmed.

"Sarn't," Captain Meller ushered me into the CP. Lieutenant Ehle, and another NCO I did not know were present. All three looked very serious.

"Your platoon all accounted for, Sarn't?"

"Uh, yes, sir. Forty men minus the platoon officer," I said, standing easy.

"All ranks, wounded, dead, or otherwise, are all accounted for; apart from one."

"Who, sir?"

"We're not sure. He was probably with your lot when you arrived."

"Maybe, sir," I glanced between Meller and Ehle curiously. "Lieutenant Corta. Where's he?"

"There was a blue-on-blue incident in Twelve Platoon's sector. I called you all here to provide an account of the incident."

"Not one single round fired from Ten Platoon, sir," I said truthfully.

"Eleven Platoon did not get contact, sir," Ehle added.

"Very well. Now that we have established that only Twelve Platoon expended ammunition I can complete the report."

"So, them Cadians…" I began, wondering what was being done about the Anti-aircraft battalion outside the wire.

"A formal apology will be issued. The Cadian wounded will be airlifted to Kasr Jark at the earliest possible opportunity. That's all you need concern yourself with, Sarn't."

"Is that all you require us for, Captain?" Ehle was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. "I should get back to my platoon."

"Yes, Lieutenant. Just write your account down here and leave it with me, you too, Sarn't Molchan. Sarn't Larn…" Meller slid a folded piece of yellow paper across the table to me. "State your involvement in the incident. Nothing flowery, just say how your platoon was involved."

Ehle and Molchan hastily scribbled their accounts and left the CP, somewhat hastily. "Uhh, sorry, sir, I'm not used to doing this," I confessed, my pencil hovering over the blank piece of paper.

"Just write what happened, which was nothing. You followed the order to stand to – sit down, man, there's a chair right next to you – and remained on standby for the duration of the action, without expending any ammunition."

I began to write slowly, "Mm, right, sir. Um, what did Lieutenant Corta do?"

"Lieutenant Corta did nothing, Sarn't. The fire order was given by me," Meller picked up his cover and fitted it on his head. "I must see to the Cadians. You finish up and leave that here. After that you're dismissed."

"Yes, sir," I nodded without looking up. Gradually, my untidy scrawl, done in red pencil, extended across the sheet, but sloping downwards; my handwriting skills were hopeless. It looked like a young child's writing, not a military account of a blue-on-blue situation. When the tip of the pencil suddenly broke I hissed, "bollocks," and was left holding a blunt stump. Tutting, I reached over to a small row of chipped pencils, and picked up a green one. This one managed to last me to the end, until that one snapped too. So focused on getting it done, I did not immediately notice the small sharpener that was placed on the table next to me.

"Ta," I stuck the broken pencil inside and worked it around, ignoring the only other soldier in the bunker with me. I was vaguely aware of a man in khaki standing off to one side, but did not give him my attention until I had finished up. Annoyed at having to write, I tossed the pencil away and reached for my account, but a hand snatched it away from under my nose.

"Oi, cunt—" I spat furiously, jumping to my feet. Intent on murder.

"No way to address a colonel," speaking lightly, the khaki-clad soldier, a Cadian – female too – carried the note around to the opposite side of the table.

Taken by surprise by the woman's voice, I stumbled, losing all bluster. The real shock came when I peered at the colonel in the half-dark of the CP, and realised who she was.

"Hello, Corporal. Or should I say, Sergeant?" the woman from the hospital on Haven said, nodding politely.

"Yer not a colonel," I said quietly, my mouth slackening.

"I am what I appear to be, Sergeant Larn," the woman glanced up at me from reading my account.

"Who are you then? What's yer name?"

The woman smiled, "Colonel."

I shook my head in denial.

"You still owe us. We have not forgotten."

"Yer intelligence, so what's yer beef with the Inquisition?"

"Call us professional rivals."

"Can I please 'ave my note back?" I came around to the woman and held out my hand.

"I appear to have mislaid my Broughtons," she said, patting her breast pocket. "Be a good non-com and give me yours."

Resentfully, I dug my own crumpled packet of cigarettes – cheap Aleimos – and offered one to the woman. Instead of taking it, she plucked the entire packet from my hand, and then took the one I had offered. "Damned foolish of me, my lighter has vanished. Light this for me, Sergeant," she placed the cigarette inbetween her lips and waited.

Determined to refrain from rising to her, I held my lighter underneath the cigarette and flicked the wheel. Above the little flame, the woman's eyes flickered up, and bored into me. "Look at me," she said softly.

Reluctant of the mysterious woman's closeness, I noticed the white nametag, and the black lettering on it. "Lapraik. You're name's Lapraik," I glanced up at her. "'Cept it ain't, is it?"

'Lapraik' smiled and blew smoke in my face. "You are not alone here, young Larn. Now, run back to your platoon, and forget my name. That is an order," saying that, she let go of the paper and dropped it onto the tabletop.

I felt the mysterious woman's eyes on my back all the way out of the CP; I was almost running.

* * *

 **Highway Seven, Southern banks of the River Luten**

Feet sore and blistered, heads bowed, Woulter and Peter Leurbach trudged along the grassy verge that ran alongside the concrete barrier. With the Tabors were the Gellen Highlanders: Callum Lorne, Donal Tsak, Ben Borens, and the other seven, several of which were limping from blistered feet. None were armed save for the rusted Vintok Carbine the stickie had given Woulter. That and the strange little stub pistol he had in his pocket. Not since Woulter had parted ways with the Stickie in the bivouac had he seen her. For a xeno, Woulter remarked, she did not seem to be that bad a person. She had stayed with him and Peter even after escaping the hauler, where anyone else would have disappeared into the night. Thinking about it now, Woulter realised he had not even thanked the stickie for saving Peter's life, and regretted that he had not done so in the short time he had known her.

"Can we stop, Dad," Peter said. "My feet hurt."

"Not 'til noon, Son," Woulter replied stonily.

"I hate these boots," Peter muttered.

"I know."

"Vehicles coming over the hill!" a highlander exclaimed.

"They're ours," Callum Lorne looked back down the highway as a column of motor vehicles crested a small hill in the distance. "Guntrucks."

"They'll be the mercenaries," Woulter said. He noticed motorbikes were at the head of the column.

"They're not after us, are they?" Peter looked worried.

"Bloody hope not," Tsak reached down to massage his right heel. "Couldn't run anymore. Not like this."

Dumbly, the Tabors and Gellens watched as four motorcycles, old beat-up models, roared past. Each carried a rider and a passenger that had a Ruchmyot 85 millimetre grenade launcher slung across his back. The weary soldiers were not paid a second glance by the riders, to Woulter's relief. This quickly changed to concern when the lead guntruck, a large four-wheeled drive open top with a Moses .50 Cal bolted to the flatbed, braked hurriedly and came to a stop.

"Peter, run when I tell you to," Woulter hefted his Vintok in both hands, when the man on the passenger side stood up in his seat. He was wiry, scarred, and wore a white scarf protruding from a camouflaged smock. A pair of narrowed eyes peered out from under heavy brows. On his head a red beret was perched at an angle, the badge of which Woulter did not recognise.

Leaning on the raised windshield, the man in the red beret called out, raising his voice to be heard over the idling engines. "Gellen Highlanders?"

Woulter glanced back at Lorne. "We're Tabors," he shouted back.

"And them?" the man in the red beret pointed at Lorne and company. "Yeah, you are, aren't you? Mount up." Unsettled by the mercenary's invite, Lorne stood rooted to the spot. The other Gellens were similar statues.

"We're Tabors," Woulter explained, pulling Peter closer to the rumbling truck.

"Heard about you," the mercenary jerked a thumb behind him. "Get up in the back, take it or leave."

"Dad, I don't want—" Peter began.

"Come on, Peter," Woulter shushed him. "Do as the man says."

"As for you," the mercenary surveyed the Gellens, "it is thirty-seven klicks to Kasr Luten. How long do you think your feet will hold up for?"

Wordlessly, Lorne and company hurried along the halted column, past the first few guntrucks, to a fleet of uncovered Hennus's that bore more mercs and, much further down, cultists.

"Hurry hurry!" the mercenary exhorted. "We press on!"

"Up on the flatbed, Peter," Woulter helped his son climb gingerly up beside the Moses' two gunners. There was a third, sitting with one leg dangling over the edge. This one caught Peter's hand and assisted him. Woulter paused when he recognised the loosely-fitting camouflage suit the stickie had worn. "I'll be damned…" he said under his breath, accepting a grimy hand. Perching awkwardly opposite the stickie, Woulter tried to peer underneath her drawn hood. He was sure it was her. That was the same baggy oversuit she was wearing when they had parted ways. So intent on figuring out, Woulter was thrown off balance when the guntruck jerked into motion, very nearly making him fall over the open tailgate. One of the gunners laughed as he caught Woulter by his shoulder strap. Red-faced, Woulter flailed about for something to steady himself, failing to hear his new companions' amusement. The stickie, unlike Woulter, was completely unfazed by the sudden movement, and swung her leg gently. She tugged back her hood from where it covered her face, like a veil, revealing a beady gold eye.

"…How?" Woulter shook his head in disbelief. When the stickie did not reply, Woulter leant closer, "I thought they'd killed you."

Blinking once, the stickie looked away, remaining silent.

"Thank you for saving Peter's life," Woulter clasped both hands together and held them out. "Thank you."

"It was not for you," the stickie said just loudly enough so that Woulter heard. Crammed beside the stickie, Peter glanced sideways at her.

For several hours, the guntrucks rolled slowly eastwards. Their progress was impaired on several occasions, Peter noted with curiosity, when teams with odd looking instruments and headphones dismounted from the guntrucks and swept the road ahead. Every now and again the motorbikes would return from their recce, usually cross-country, and report to the mercenary in charge, the man in the red beret; who would then order them to scout out further ahead of the main force.

"Where are we going, Dad?" Peter asked at one point.

Woulter shrugged and shook his head. "We'll take a look at your feet when we stop."

"Is he your dad?" one of the Moses gunners, a barrel-chested man in a khaki smock and a green beret, pointed at Woulter.

"Yeah," Peter replied.

"Could never get my old man out the door, let alone into boots with me. How old are you anyway?"

"Fifteen."

"Ye gods!" the mercenary laughed.

Around about noon, at least by Woulter's reckoning, the column stopped, turning off of the highway which had lost the concrete barricade. Each vehicle parked facing inwards, at a forty-five degree angle; on a herringbone. He was impressed by the speed at which the mercenaries set up their perimeter. The guntrucks on the south side of the road had their batteries covering south and east. Towards the river, and Cadia Primus, even with it supposedly being in friendly hands, the mercenaries also posted sentries. They ran like a well-organised machine, which was completely at odds with the gaggle of undisciplined cultists that spilled from the trucks further down the column, and threw themselves into the river, whooping and cheering.

Izuru Numerial, concealed at a distance from the briefing Lysell Talvera held, listened closely to what the mercenaries were saying. Gathered around the bonnet of a guntruck, the five officers pored over a map laid across it. A fair degree of uncertainty was running through the Rangers' ranks. Captain Talvera was still unsure of the strategic objective, whether or not armour would be following them up along the Highway for an assault on Kasr Luten. The column had recced a good deal further than had been ordered to, and was in danger of outrunning their support element, which was still offloading at Kasr Hollen. The job was not helped by the fact that the docks had been rendered completely unusable by the bombing, forcing all stores to be delivered onto the beach by landing craft, which were in short supply. The consolation to all that was that the countryside around them, up to at least thirty-five klicks, was devoid of the enemy, who appeared to have retreated inside the walls of Kasr Luten; leaving the Rangers free to roam. Talvera concluded, issuing a halt order until he could confirm with his superiors just what their objective was.

"I suppose you heard all that just now?" Talvera, having dismissed his officers, came round the gun truck, to where Izuru leant on the flank. "No worry. We are overstretched here, nothing to discuss except admin and security. The scouts caught not a whiff of the Imperials. They have gone to ground, hiding in their fortress-cities."

Izuru, folding her arms, said nothing.

"I did not ask you what you can provide this battalion before. Now I am asking," Talvera stared at her expectantly. "How can I use you?"

"For the elimination of enemy personnel," Izuru said. "In the absence of orders, I find something to kill."

"You're a killer, uh?" Talvera opened the passenger door and reached underneath the seat.

"I am what I am required to be. Scout, sniper, saboteur…"

"This is for you," Talvera pulled out a long object wrapped up in a thick blanket and carried it over to the flatbed. Unwrapping the cover, Talvera revealed a long rifle. "Arowana sniper rifle. .374 calibre. Ten rounds." He picked the rifle up and showed it to Izuru. The Arowana had a long barrel, equally long wooden handguards, and a skeletonised stock with a cheek rest. "830 metres per second muzzle velocity, accurate to 800 metres," Talvera slipped a telescopic sight onto a rail and clipped it in place. Pointing the rifle skywards with one hand, he popped the covers and put his eye to the sights. "This was Sorienne's rifle. He only missed once. A tragedy for one to die so young."

"One miss is all that it takes."

"Indeed," Talvera's moment of sadness passed, and the icy exterior was back in place once more. "Kill many Imperials with it," he said coldly, handing Izuru a small box of cartridges.

With the Arowana slung on her shoulder, Izuru picked her way through tall stalks of grass that led to the water's edge. Nearby, other men were crouching in ankle-deep water, washing faces and armpits, and brushing teeth. Further to the west, the cultists and general rabble that followed the mercenaries around were paying little heed to the warzone they were in, and were splashing around, howling like children.

Kneeling in the wet mud, Izuru ignored the human vermin and paid a cautious look around before lowering her hood. The water was brown and scummy, but she had not washed since her departure from the fleet. The swim across the estuary had only laced her hair and clothing with salt and other grime. Slowly dipping her hand underneath the surface, Izuru withdrew a handful of water, and wiped her face and the back of her neck. She would dry off no cleaner than she had been before, but her skin itched so. Scratching her jaw, Izuru felt the sticky warmth behind her ears where the sweat had picked up dirt. Were she not in the combat zone, in better company, and in front of a cleaner body of water, she would have stripped off and dived beneath the surface; praying to The Mother to cleanse her body and mind of her sins. _But it was not to be_. _I am here. I am this being now. This is my path._

Feeling behind her for the waterskin – one of her few remaining possessions not looted from the humans – Izuru pulled out the stopper and drank. The tiny droplets that soon remained she poured onto a large leaf, and watched them run down the crevices, quickly becoming one corridor. They stayed together until the very end, when they reached the tip of the leaf, and splashed softly on the ground; soaking in.

Glancing around to check she was not being observed, Izuru replaced her empty skin, and rose. In the midst of turning away she saw, through the grass, the two humans, father and son. They too were beside the water. The father, Woulter, knelt beside the son, Peter, who had his head bowed, as if in prayer. Tenderly, Woulter poured a small handful of water from his canteen over the back of Peter's head. Peter's eyes were closed. He was also barefoot. Two bright blisters were visible on the back of his heels. It was Woulter that looked up when Izuru approached. Peter, water dripping from his nose and chin, looked frail in her tall shadow.

"Yours," Woulter tried to hand back the Vintok to her. Izuru shook her head, squatting on the balls of her feet.

"I think this one's your too," Woulter took the Moses from his trouser pocket and offered it to her.

"Not mine," Izuru replied, taking it anyway, and replacing it in the empty holster on her belt.

Wiping Peter's hair with a dirty towel, Woulter said, "can't imagine a stickie having any business with an antique like that. I thought your lot hated us, and anything we've made. It come from somewhere?"

"We do. Although I am loathe to feel hate, unless the being is truly deserving of it." As she said it, Izuru cast a glance at the distant cultists. "Selfishness and spite. The very lowest forms of life."

"Mmm, they're animals. Wouldn't want to mix with them."

"The Moses was from a fellow warrior; a human. And one whom I reserve a special hatred for."

"I can't imagine anyone pissing you off and living to tell about it," Woulter said, half-smiling. "Must've made a lot of enemies in your time."

"And a great many of them are dead. My heart swells at the thought that they died by my own hand."

"Did this one die by your hand? Before you took that weapon?"

"Not yet."

"You said you hated him."

"And I do. I hold a very special hatred, from the deepest reaches of my heart, for there will come a time when we are face to face once more, where no-one will kill him but I," Izuru clenched and unclenched her hand. "Such are the ways of war."

Woulter stared at Izuru, a funny look on his face. "Do you l—?"

A sharp thud, quickly followed by a thick spout of water made heads whip round.

"Bloody mine! Outta the water, iggery!" a sentry shouted from the roadside.

"Come on, Peter," Woulter pulled his son away from the waterside, taking his boots and socks with him. Izuru followed them up the bank, back to where the guntrucks were parked.

"I warned them. But did they listen…?" Talvera watched a mob of cultists through his glasses, shaking his head derisively. A group of about seven or eight were clustered around another, lying in a patch of reddish water with one leg in the air. Where the leg should have been, there was a bright red stump. Whatever madness had ahold of the onlookers, it had the wounded man too, for he laughed just as hard at his foolishness as anyone did. None of the Rangers laughed. Woulter put an arm around Peter's shoulder. The stickie, in just that moment, had disappeared.


	20. Chapter 19

**Kasr Kraf, Cadia Secundus, 19:04 (Cadian Time)**

"By the sacred golden throne of the God-Emperor, I am an inquisitor, not a general dogsbody!" Osvat Radu Zeleska raged. "It is not the business of a chosen operative of the Ordo Hereticus to dabble in the affairs of the Ordo Xenos!"

Even in his safe position of Zeleska's trusted right hand, Argus Degrelle struggled not to quail in the inquisitor's presence, for the news he had brought his master had turned his mood black. "My Lord, a most urgent request for an official of the Ordo Xenos, or any Ordo, was sent out."

"And who would dare call upon the Inquisition? Call upon me?" Zeleska stormed, flinging a stack of datacards, piled beside a desktop cogitator, onto the floor. "I am busy enough with my own work."

Degrelle, having been unable to finish before, continued, "a xeno was reported – an informant reported a xeno – in one of the wards of the hospital a few blocks north of Martyr's Rampart."

His tantrum residing, much to Degrelle's relief, Zeleska threw himself back down on his chair and put his heavy boots up on the table, scattering further piles of datacards. "A xeno, really?"

"The informant is reliable, My Lord."

"Have him killed for wasting my time," Zeleska said casually.

"He was able to provide a description of the xeno…"

"Probably a gutter-born of such low breeding, he would not look out of place with a family of Ogryns," Zeleska leant on the arm of his chair, pressing a finger to his temple. "I would not play games with these time-wasters, Argus. The amount of paperwork that accompanies obliteration is phenomenal. I am up to my eyes in it."

"Yes, My Lord," Degrelle bowed his head politely. He could see Zeleska was preoccupied with some task or other, but he was sure it had little to do with obliteration; those pylons perhaps. Curious structures. Such a mild remark was all Degrelle permitted. Anything not of human origin was heretical, and deserving only of the Emperor's wrath.

"The xeno was a young female," he added quickly before Zeleska could interrupt him.

"Pfft," Zeleska grunted, only half-listening.

"Red hair."

"…Red hair," Zeleska, all boredom disappearing, sat bolt upright in his chair, a blank look on his features. "The Martyr's Rampart you say?"

"Yes, My Lord. But a short walk from—"

"It is across the other side of the city, you cretin!"

Grimly, Zeleska grabbed his folded cape and drew it over his shoulders. "Fetch Lenz. We will take the car."

Kraf, like every Kasr, was divided into hexagonal districts of equal proportion, and since a permanent state of martial law was in effect, the military governors had authority over the civilian bureaucrats. Thought it could indeed be said that there was not a single civilian on Cadia, for every citizen born in the shadow of the Eye of Terror was conscripted into the military and given training for future service to the Imperium. Men, women, and children all stood ready to fight for their home, and had been fighting ever since the traitor legions had fled inside the warp storms in the aftermath of the heresy, and the Emperor's ascension to the Golden Throne. However, instead of seeing the smartly-attired Cadian Shock Troopers marching through the clean streets as was constantly advertised across the local propaganda channels, Zeleska bore witness to the hideous influx of dirty refugees that had fled their worlds, seeking protection from the vile tides of Chaos.

For the journey across Kraf, Zeleska had the windows of his private automobile blacked out, so neither he nor the hordes of low-born could see one another. To them, the black and chrome six-wheeler was just another bureaucrat travelling on a higher plane of existence from the common riff-raff. Drumming his fingers on the side panel, Zeleska wondered what had compelled the lord castellan to allow so many off-worlders to pollute his avenues, squat in vacant property, and spill out onto the streets to huddle idly and beg for food. And another thing unique to Cadia: the constant turning motion of the car was making Zeleska queasy, due to zig-zag pattern the streets were laid out in. The smooth asphalt carriageways were perfectly wide enough for traffic, only they never continued in a straight line for more than thirty yards, forcing road-users to keep their speed to little more than a crawl. So used to cruising about on the arrow-straight highways of Haven, Zeleska was infuriated when Degrelle was forced to come to a dead halt behind a column of Hennus troop transports. The butt of his ivory-plated plasma pistol was in Zeleska's hand before he caught himself, letting go of the door handle and reclining back in his leather seat. He had been about to dismount and make an example of those that would waste the Inquisition's time, but realised he would only draw attention to himself and cause an even greater mess; one that would take far longer to sort out than the current one that clogged the highway.

"Looks like a traffic jam, My Lord," Lenz Kontrose, sitting in the front passenger seat beside Degrelle, who was driving, spoke over the car's intercom. Zeleska promptly cut the audio on his end. _When will you learn to stop stating the obvious?_ Another time-waster, he remarked, but one not without his qualities. Both men, thugs through and through, had had their qualities refined by the Inquisition's tutelage, transforming them into quite effective acolytes, loyal to the Emperor; but moreso to him.

Glancing upwards, Zeleska watched a double-barrelled anti-aircraft weapon, mounted on a high rooftop, traverse across the sky. On top of every building in Kraf there was some form of military installation built with the city's defence in mind. Anti-aircraft guns, from the smallest stubber batteries, to the largest, and rarest, 4.5-inch naval guns, dotted the sloped, matte green rooftops. Anti-augur stations, missile turrets, searchlights, even just a few more layers of spaced armour protecting important bastions of communication and defence had been added in anticipation of a planetary invasion.

 _By all the powers, are we finally through?_ Zeleska momentarily removed the tint from his window when the car picked up speed after forty-five minutes of a near-total lack of motion. The fleet of Hennus's were turning west, their route taking them downhill towards the barbican, and out of the city, towards the Elysion Fields. Thankful to be out from behind the great, smoke-belching vehicles, Zeleska replaced the dark tint, and sat back for the final leg of the journey.

It was almost 20:00 when the car pulled up outside an unmarked military hospital. It appeared to Zeleska that Degrelle was parking right outside the front door, until he wound down his window and saw the crowds of civilians gathering around the entrance that was guarded by conscripts of the Interior Guard.

"Argus try – try around the back!" Zeleska said, quickly closing his window. "It is too conspicuous out here." The moment the words left his mouth, air-raid sirens began to wail in the distance. The baying crowd, desperate for entry, even at the point of the bayonets hefted by the interior guardsmen, quickly fell silent before trickling away to the bomb shelters.

"Well…" Zeleska's lip curled. "Argus, take her around the back and park. Wait for me there."

Hopping out whilst the car was still in motion, Zeleska gathered his cloak around him and strode up to the two guardsmen.

"Halt! State your business, citizen, or be on your way." The pair, their faces hidden behind full facemasks, hefted their Kantraels threateningly.

Respecting the guardsmen were only following orders, Zeleska kept silent and flashed his Inquisitorial Seal, well aware that it would carry him anywhere.

"Yes, My Lord!" The guardsmen, at Port Arms, snapped their weapons to their sides, planting the butts on the ground in perfect unison. Pivoting, again simultaneously, the guardsmen faced each other, admitting Zeleska to the hospital.

The Officio Medicae facility was faintly lit and smelt fresh, despite the many guardsmen that had been admitted in the past several weeks. Servo skulls, emblazoned with twin snakes coiled around a winged sceptre, flew around, their inner workings humming softly. One made over to Zeleska and fixed a beady red eye on him. Aware of the machine scanning his retinas, Zeleska glared vehemently enough to send it zooming away, hissing to itself.

"Were the guardsmen outside shirking their duty?" a medicae trainee stood up from behind a wide, circular desk in the centre of the entrance hall. A mechanical eye with coiled wires trailing around the back of the man's skull blinked beadily, sizing Zeleska up.

Zeleska said nothing. The squeak of his boots on the polished, pale floor battered at the silence, intimidating the medicae trainee as they drew closer. "State your family name and home address," Zeleska said in low tones.

The trainee visibly crumbled before him as if sensing the aura of power and influence the man exerted. Falling back into his seat, the young man rested his hands in his lap and stared dumbly at the centre screen of the three cogitators arranged around his desk.

"Be a good chap and tell me where the secure facilities are?" Zeleska leant forwards over the desk, towering above the petrified trainee, his seal in one hand.

"S-seventh floor, My Lord," the trainee's eyes were glued to the desk in fear. "Aurealis Wing. Block A."

No words would be spared on him, Zeleska decided, for the young man looked to be frightened into near catatonia by his arrival, which would probably be the highlight of his entire boring career. Satisfied there were no major hiccups so far, Zeleska swept across the entrance hall to a trio of hydraulic doors which led to the lifts. In the process of pressing the sigil for the seventh floor, Zeleska said to himself _ah-ah, take the stairs. You need_ _the exercise._ Tutting, Zeleska conceded, turning into a side hall that took him over to a flight of stairs that led both up and down. His gloved hand was on the cold railing when a grumble of grating steel turned his attention back to the lifts.

"Good evening," he called when an older man, more senior-looking than the young man behind the desk, appeared. He looked to at least a practitioner, from the decorations on his white coat. His grey hair was shaved to the skin and, at first glance seemed in his early fifties. But you could never tell with all the age rejuvenates circulating the market, both legal and illegal.

"Visiting hours have ended," the older man stood his ground when Zeleska approached. "Are you soldier? Civilian?"

"I am neither," Zeleska displayed his seal. Hoping for an immediate showing of ignorant subservience, he was off-put when the man's calm demeanour remained firmly in place.

"Good evening to you, My Lord. I am Zacharias," the man nodded politely, clasping his hands behind his back.

 _Brave man,_ Zeleska noted Zacharias' relaxed manner, the way he did not fold his arms defensively across his chest like anyone would when visited by the inquisition. "The seventh floor is where patients are held securely, is it not?"

"It is indeed, My Lord," Zacharias gestured at the, still-open, doors. "I have just come down from there."

"A walk perhaps," Zeleska ignored the proffered ride and instead bade the doctor to accompany him up the staircase. "Exercise is good for the mind."

"I admit, our small establishment has never had the pleasure," Zacharias said as they climbed the stairs together.

"Nor will it ever again," Zeleska replied. "The question is there, only it has yet to be asked."

"I simply figured a man of my position would be out of place asking questions of a man of influence."

"Then I shall ask of you. Have you knowledge of a certain patient not usually accepted within your wards, but admitted nonetheless?"

"Our code compels us to provide aid to all who cross the threshold. Gender, age, occupation, they are not a factor here."

"And what of race?"

"A dying child lies before you. Its origins cannot be affirmed. What would you do?" Zacharias smoothly turned the question back on Zeleska.

Refusing to be drawn into a verbal bout, Zeleska put in bluntly. "This is a racial issue. I am aware that your little branch of the Officio Medicae is keeping an enemy alien here. I would be shown to where it is being kept."

"As you said. Seventh floor, My Lord," Zacharias, still unperturbed, smiled mildly.

 _Old fool_ , Zeleska felt a muscle going in his jaw. He was tempted to openly threaten the man with vaporisation, not just for him but of his entire family, for his attitude.

The Aurealis Wing, though similar in appearance, was no different than the other wings on the seventh floor. That was until Zacharias reached a door that did not open of its own accord. It stood alone at the end of a long, dark green corridor, lit overhead by pale red bulbs set in the ceiling at intervals. Outside the entrance to Block A, a servo-skull hovered silently. Its single green eye, passive, turned red on Zeleska's approach. The Inquisitorial Seal instantly pacified the skull, turning its bright eye down to a calm green once more.

"What you seek is inside," Zacharias' fingers flashed across a holographic keypad. When the door rose, he beckoned to Zeleska. "After you, My Lord."

Pale blue light cast irregular shadows throughout the deserted ward, giving it an eerie, other-worldly feel. His gaze sweeping over the rows of empty beds, Zeleska eyes narrowed when the xeno's whereabouts did not become clear to him immediately.

Zacharias' voice preceded a sudden burst of bright light. "Let these lights guide you."

Shielding his eyes for a second, Zeleska blinked slowly.

"Apologies, Dominatus Dominus," Zacharias said, in a strangely loud tone.

"Dominatus Dominus…?" Zeleska, dismayed, paused and turned to face Zacharias. "I am not…"

"The Archmagos is down that corridor, My Lord," Zacharias bowed and retreated before Zeleska could reply.

Caught off-guard, not something that happened very often admittedly, Zeleska was left facing down a long corridor, the overheads lights of which flickered on in sets, stretching further away from him. "Show yourself!" Zeleska called, his fingers twitching at the butt of his plasma pistol.

"Inquisitor Osvat Radu Zeleska, Ordo Hereticus. Did you not heed your master's call?" a voice, mechanical but high-pitched, boomed from the walls.

Ripping his plasma pistol from its holster, Zeleska strode purposefully forwards, intent on shutting the speaker's mouth permanently. How dare it know so much about him!

"How loose will your tongue be if I find you?" Zeleska spat. "How vocal will you be when I rip it from your mouth?"

"There is no probability in your chancing upon me, Inquisitor. It is a certainty," the mechanical voice replied. "You might find it a challenge to remove my tongue though. I did that long ago."

 _Who are you?_ Zeleska's mind raced. _One so knowledgeable on the inquisition._

Outpacing the flickering lights, Zeleska was drowned in darkness. He was not aware that he had entered the ward until more blinding lamps powered on overhead. Through his fingers, shielding his eyes, Zeleska saw a mountain of red robes and shiny metal pile beside a life support unit.

"At last," the mountain spoke. _The Mountain spoke?_

"Throne of Terra. What the _hell_ are you?" Losing all cool, Zeleska's mouth opened wide in fear when the mountain, which was not a mountain at all but a mechanical being, twelve-foot-tall, turned from the life support unit and towered over him.

"Osvat Radu Zeleska. I am Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl." As he said it, a claw extended from the sleeve of the crimson robes he wore. Thin, spindly fingers were attached to the end of the arm. "Lower your weapon or surrender it."

Hastily Zeleska holstered his pistol and tried to regain his cool. This he was not expecting. Some mechanical nightmare twice his height now stared down at him with two bright eyes underneath a red hood. One a dead milky white, the other bright blue from a bionic implant, which was what really made up most of the thing's body; for it was nothing but implants. If it had been human once, any traces of it now were gone for good. Swallowing, Zeleska said, a little too shakily for his liking, "I am an inquisitor of the Ordo Hereticus. I seek a xeno hiding in this facility."

"Young inquisitor…" The many legs underneath Cawl's robe carried him away from the life support unit, allowing Zeleska to see what was in it. "…she was never hidden."

Zeleska caught his breath sharply. The being in the medical unit was, unmistakably, the red-haired xeno from Nemtess. "It's her," he whispered. "How in the…?"

"A man from the Ordo Hereticus seeking a xeno?" Cawl extended an arm, bristling with whirring gears, and picked up a strange and exotic-looking staff that was leaning against the wall. Taller than even Cawl, the weapon was equal parts spear as it was battleaxe. In the centre of the blade was the sigil of the Adeptus Mechanicus. "Young Master Zeleska. You are overstepping your authority. This matter requires the Ordo Xenos."

Keeping from edging away from the monstrosity, Zeleska replied, "all xenos are my authority, Admech thing. You would be wise to hand her over to my custody."

"That would be quite impossible," Cawl tilted his 'head'. The slightly-off placement on his bloated torso put whether it was indeed his actual head into question. "But I admire your dedication to your cause."

"I have the full backing of the inquisition's might!" Zeleska, snarling, raised a fist in front of him, striding over to the young xeno's bed. "This xeno will be removed from this device and be prepared for transport immediately."

"Your threats will produce little results, Master Zeleska. Though it appears you are used to getting what you want. As I said, it would be quite impossible to remove her from life support. I do not see how your torturers can gain knowledge from a corpse!" Cawl heaved his body across the room to loom over Zeleska once more.

Balking at the machine's quiet, menacing manner, Zeleska tried a different approach. "And what interest does an archmagos of the Mechanicum have in a xeno female? Are you a medicae?"

"I am a scientist. But throughout my life I have become familiar with biology, human or otherwise. It interests me, if you can believe that a machine holds interests."

"I am struggling to."

"Yes, you would, Master Zeleska. For has the Imperium not valued human superiority over the past ten-thousand years?" Noticing Zeleska's stunned expression, Cawl added, "such an expressive face. It was easy for me then, to smile, to laugh, to love. But blood does not run inside me now, only oil. And these bones that I was born with are ash, scattered, removed in place of steel and ceramite."

"Her – the xeno," Zeleska bent over the life support unit and looked at the xeno inside. Her pale, angelic face was ghostly white, and the thick hair around it had lost its shine, dulling to a deeper red.

"Whether she chooses to awake in your lifetime is none of your concern, Master Zeleska," Cawl rumbled. "A child she is little more than. And a prisoner she is not. Nor will she ever be one of yours."

"This has not yet been decided, Machine," Zeleska jabbed a finger at the floor, walking backwards as he did so. "Heads will roll when I inform my master of the Mechanicum's obstruction of justice."

"Yes, run back to your master. Send the lord inquisitor Belisarius Cawl's compliments," Cawl said, standing protectively beside the xeno, staff in hand.

With the departure of the arrogant inquisitor, Cawl lowered his guard. Planting the butt of his staff on the floor, he leant on it and gazed down at the xeno. Such a beauty was undeserving of the word freak, as many would immediately denounce her as. Cawl would describe her as, quite simply, art. And in a way he wished that he could keep her, as a reminder that not all beauty in the galaxy had been lost. But no, the sympathy inside Cawl, the side that always compelled him to make the moral choice, however foolish, sternly reminded him that her place was with her own kind, and not beside an abomination. It was lucky that the xeno was relatively safe in the secure facility, for the staff had found her outside, comatose and close to death's door in the early hours of the morning, before she was discovered and set upon by mobs of refugees, whose opinions of xenos could not be worse currently. Cawl, on the return trip from a secret expedition to Eriad VI, was visiting his old colleague Zacharias when the latter had let slip of a most unusual patient, and the rest was that.

"Rest, Little One. Let no dark thoughts invade your mind," Cawl whispered when he departed the Ward, shutting the lights off behind him. "You will be returned to your kind in time."

* * *

In Woulter Leurbach's dream, the stickie had glided from the darkness, and grabbed him by his lapels, shaking him, demanding to know where it was in an angry hiss. Roused from sleep by a pair of hands, also shaking him by the lapels, Woulter mumbled groggily.

"Where is it?" the stickie hissed vehemently, her sudden ferocity startling Woulter. "Give back what you stole!"

"Dad?" Peter's voice, apprehensive, in the darkness, pulled him to his senses.

"…was meaning to give it back," Woulter fumbled in his pocket for the strange stone attached to a broken cord. "Sorry. Guess it meant something."

" _Ag-Cresistauead!_ " the stickie's hand snatched at the cord, swiftly withdrawing inside her baggy sleeve.

"Stay here, Peter," Woulter threw off his woollen blanket and followed the stickie away from the mercenaries' bivouac. "Where are you going?" he called softly.

"Nowhere that requires human company," the stickie turned to face Woulter. The long sniper rifle was in her hands. "Your human eyes can barely see the ground in front of you. Go back."

As she said it, Woulter's foot found a tree root, throwing him forwards. Landing heavily on his hands and knees, Woulter looked up and saw the stickie had vanished, in just that blink of a second that he had taken his eyes off her.

"Go back," the stickie's voice echoed from far away.

* * *

 **Firebase Rakkassan, 22:17**

His slick blacked out as per regulations, Hugh Waldo slowly brought Crow 5-7 in to land on the firebase's narrow LZ. While difficult during the day, the absence of the light, both on the ground and on Waldo's ship, made it dangerously easy to misjudge the ground beneath him. Even with the aid of his helmet's night vision setting, it was still an effort to pull off landing. The removal of depth perception was an endless complaint by users, not that anything would ever be done about it.

"Okay, boys, last trip of the day. We'll shuttle the colonel down to Kraf, then we'll get some scran and kip," Waldo said over crew comms. Arun Ovile grunted in reply. Ori Hensen and Russ Reath were silent. They were thinking about Irv Sice.

"Can't see the colonel, Waldo," Arun said, "thought she and the captain would be jumping aboard."

"…Oh, something's up," Waldo's heart sank when an NCO standing on the edge of the LZ, waved both arms in the air, signalling for him to power down.

"What's the problem?" Waldo shouted in the NCO's ear after he had hopped down from the cockpit. "Where's the colonel?"

The noncom shook his head and gestured for Waldo to follow him down to the company CP. "Better come quick. We got more wounded for you to take."

"What? Where are they coming from?" Waldo, perplexed, hurried after the noncom. He thought one lift would be all they needed. Where were they finding these wounded men?

Inside the lit bunker, a group of officers were in conversation. The man Waldo recognised as the company commander, Meller, greeted him. "Are you the pilot?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," Waldo nodded. He took note of the colonel who, along with the captain accompanying her, was keeping watch over the container that the former had brought from Kasr Luten. What was in there then? Waldo wondered. The other officers present did not share his curiosity it seemed.

"This is Major Lilienthal, Cadian 83rd Anti-Air Defence Battalion," Meller introduced an officer in khaki and a black beret, whose arm was in a sling. "The major has requested you divert from your original mission and transport his dead and wounded to Kasr Jark as soon as possible."

Waldo swallowed, "yes, sir." Glancing at the colonel, he was surprised when she made no move to object. "Colonel?"

"As the major orders, WO," she said. "We shall await your return."

"Uh, provided we can accommodate all the wounded, Colonel, we will not be able to return for you and your party tonight. This will be the last lift of the day. All aircraft not rated as night-fighters must be grounded past 23:00."

Major Lilienthal looked troubled at that. "I am sorry for hampering your mission, Colonel. But I have three dead and seventeen wounded to account for…"

"Not at all, Colonel. All I ask is that Warrant Officer Waldo returns before first light tomorrow. And we can be on our way."

"It's settled then," Meller announced. "WO, prep your ship for take-off. We'll be loading Major Lilienthal's men aboard in the meantime. Everyone not needed for this exercise, dismissed."

Waldo cornered Meller once the platoon officers had departed. "What the hell happened, sir?" he muttered. "There weren't supposed to be any more wounded."

Glancing quickly at the colonel, Meller whispered, "there was an accident, that's all. I made a mistake. The fault was mine. Now get back to your ship!"

The words _blue-on-blue_ flared up ominously in Waldo's mind as he took the CP steps two at a time. Already the wounded were being ferried up the slick's ramp. Russ Reath, baffled at his troop bay filling up, made a wide gesture of dismay at his pilot. Ori Hensen, pressed into carrying the Cadians aboard, mouthed something off at Waldo. _Just go with it_ , Waldo replied without speaking. They knew him well enough that they could read his expression and body language even in darkness.

"Fire her up," Waldo said to Arun as he slipped into his cockpit seat.

"The colonel not coming?"

"No, someone got careless and zipped a bunch of Cadian AA blokes. We're playing medevac tonight."

"She mind we're leaving her here overnight?"

"Couldn't tell you. She's green slime. You can never tell what they're thinking."

"…Hugh."

The use of Waldo's first name struck a chord of alarm. Snapping his head around, Waldo gasped behind his oxygen mask. "What the f—?"

A kilometre-high wall of flame had risen over to the north-west. All was silent for a few seconds, then the low rumble reached the firebase, sending a tremor through the earth, rattling the insides of the Valkyrie. It was the largest explosion Waldo had ever seen. Even at a distance the brightness and warmth could be felt. "Hugh," Arun said in a little voice. "I think they just blew up Kasr Luten."

Colonel Lapraik, having remained inside the CP, smiled when she heard the destruction of the Kasr. It was 22:30 precisely. Just as Creed had planned.

* * *

Dittybopping through budding gardens of metal, planted thick with deadly antipersonnel mines, tripwires, and aluminium cans filled to the brim with stones, I froze in the dark and listened as the night was invaded by the growing roar of the approaching gunship's twin turbine engines, sending a little shiver through my heart. _No slack_ , my wasted pals in 1 Neria said in my ear. _We rate no slack and neither does Zeke._

It was my second trip beyond the wire, and my first alone. The night Draino and I ventured out into the killing zone was brief yet informative, with Draino pointing out the positions of the trip flares, noise makers, and Walloons, the latter, in our sector, we turned around to face outwards. The prankster that had played with the mines had yet to come forwards and apologise, even after we had posted a bulletin offering a slab to anyone with solid intel on the culprit.

Being alone in the dark allowed me to become myself again, a silent, watchful, alien-like being with the stolen face of little James Larn, the former pants-wetting, shit-staining, skuzzy conscript, reborn in the grey mud a life-taker of everyone named Perf, Zeke, and Mr. Greenskin. The isolation I sought could only be found beyond the wire, in the fields of death, where Zeke would be shortly receiving his fair share of imperial hospitality in the form of lasbolts, full-metal-jacketed rounds, and grenades.

Wearing a bandolier of 40 mm grenades, HE and buckshot, and armed with one of the platoon's three Castra grenade launchers, a comically short piece that looked like an oversized shotgun, I prowled the waste in search of Zeke. Hoping, wishing with an almost sexual hunger, for him to stick his face up, and allow me to send him a fragmentation grenade in greeting.

For days, the inaction, coupled with the increased shelling, had stretched nerves and shortened tempers. Sleeping in comfort – in one of the cots inside a cosy bunker – would tempt the nightmares which came in full force, tormenting me from their emplacements in the dark corners of my mind. Covering my eyes would not stop the terrors, for their janky, stop-motion-like movements, their larger-than-life faces, and their laughter existed inside me; the dark spirits of my bad conscience. Only by murdering sleep could I regain ground in my little internal struggle. But every time I did succumb to the temptation to rest my head, my mental perimeter was overrun, and I lost the war.

Scanning with the eyes of a tracker, I come up cold. Zeke had not clomped about in our AO the previous night. Neither had he wriggled his naked body through tiny gaps in the wire to infiltrate our positions and heave fourteen-pound satchel charges inside bunkers. That night the killing zone was mine.

Overhead an illumination flare popped, flooding the fields with a ghostly red light. Put up every thirty minutes, the flares revealed all, except if you were standing completely still, where only then could a grunt go unnoticed. The quick action of throwing oneself to the ground, and freezing in place, would invite a half-second tapdance with a Walloon's payload, before the limbs would fly off in all directions, and the body, becoming intimate with 700 1/8-inch steel balls, would take on real estate reserved solely for KIAs.

It was with a half-smile on my face that I remained, half-kneeling, half-standing, in full view of the handful grunts of 10 Platoon who were on stag. Presenting my back to them, I dared someone to take a shot at me, to set off the daisy-chained Walloons in the hope that it would make the smiling ghost disappear in a black storm of death and sanctioned imperial steel. Without my bootneck flak jacket I was a 110 pound bag of red blood and white bone, on display for the slaughter. Not that the olive grey armour vest would save me from the many thousands of steel balls when they caught me inside their sixty degree field of fire. To them I was guard-issue meat, my forfeit for holding dominion over the killing zone.

Laughing softly as the parachute flare, in the midst of its wayward descent, began to fizzle out, I scuttled sideways, clutching my Castra to my chest like a newborn child. With the return of the night, and the silence that followed in the aftermath of the Valkyrie's loud announcement, I slipped further and further out from the perimeter, running wires through my hands to see whether they had been cut, testing for slack on tripwires, and righting upended Walloons, knocked over by the incoming.

Forging a path through the danger, I found myself three hundred yards out, and facing the tall line of trees. Inside Zeke would consolidate before launching his first attack, likely an infiltration by sappers to open up lanes in the wire and mines for the assault troops. _Would Zeke have tanks?_ I wondered, about-facing to view the distant silhouette of Rakka. Our only defence against armoured assault were the muddy shell craters left by the heavy 175 mm howitzers, many of them as much as four-and-a-half metres wide, and two metres deep. The only feasible route tanks could take was a single mud track, which was closer to 12 Platoon's sector than ours, running out of the trees and straight across their axis of fire until it twisted sharply around to skirt the eastern flank of Rakka. Rain would be favourable in the event armour did show, I thought, wishing to feel the patter of it on my unwashed skin and see the shellholes filling up with brown water.

The more time I spent lingering outside the wire, the more I preferred it to hiding inside bunkers and trenches all day long, waiting for the dreaded incoming and the enemy who refused to show his face, and play by our rules. Out in the open air I could inhale without catching the warm, sweaty musk of stained OG combats, armpits, crotches, bad breath, damp socks, gun lubricant, oiled brass, and the stink of burning shit. Was it my imagination or could I even taste the scent of shit where I squatted? Wrinkling my nostrils, I closed my eyes and sniffed, realising a new smell had arisen. And it was not coming from the direction of Rakka, rather from behind, in the direction of the river; an all too familiar smell.

 _Dead body._

I had it figured out instantly, remembering Nemesis Tessera, and the mass graves on Bastille. Slinging my Castra around my back, I drew the eight-inch combat knife sheathed on my right hip, following my nose through the darkened trees. Such close confines left no room to operate the Castra which, loaded with a round of HE, would only arm after travelling a distance of thirty metres. But besides, so far out from friendly positions, even the smallest rustle, or snap of a twig could prove dire for me.

When in a forest, one either looks for the prone shape of a helmeted figure, hugging the grass with his rifle in his hands, or up in the tree branches to scan for hidden marksmen, possibly even Walloons cunningly strung above eye level. The sight of a pair of legs subtly swaying in the non-existent breeze – a view I did not expect – turned up the hairs on the back of my neck. Pausing for a moment, I was overcome with dizziness when I glimpsed the hanging body through the bushes. Tilting my head downwards, I took off my crap hat and rubbed my strained eyes, reluctantly admitting a little fear into the system.

The tree the body hung from was on its own in a little glade, a stone's throw from the Luten, where the pinkish smudge of the Eye of Terror could be seen from the ground. Approaching warily, keeping a sharp vigil for any signs of a trap, I slowly circled the area in the shadow of the body, looking, listening for anything that was out of place. Up close the decomposition was beginning to taste like overripe fruit which was just getting to the point of rottenness. The really bad smell had not yet started to set in. Soon it would be gone-off eggs mixed in with bad meat and faeces, a stench so strong it would not be possible to walk within 50 yards and not want to throw up. Even without the light I could see the ugly stains on the seat of the trousers caused by the sphincter muscles relaxing, whereupon the body had void its bowels before going cold.

 _Who are you?_ My instincts said Zeke. But Zeke had not yet made himself known in our sector. Could it be a deserter then? _Unless you're our missing man,_ I remembered Captain Meller mentioning there was one rank unaccounted for. _Let's get you down_ , I decided, sheathing my knife then searching for purchase on the tree trunk. Scaling the tree proved little challenge, even in the dark. In my past life I was always fond of finding tall trees and seeing how high up I could climb before the height got to me. It had been fun, so much fun that I had always done it on my own, never needing another's company.

Halfway up I snapped out of my reminiscing, forcing myself to forget about the past, instead striving to focus on my grim task, a rope that proved a tough opponent for my knife. The tightly wound threads were sturdy, deflecting the sawing blade obstinately. But gradually I felt the rope give way. It was taking longer than expected. The rustling I was making was an aural beacon in the silent sea of green. The branch I was lying on was shaking. When at long last the final strand severed, the body dropped, causing a rumble in the distance.

Freezing, my legs wrapped around the tree branch, I felt my heart begin to beat faster against the wood. That rumble, closer to an explosion, had come from behind. Holding my breath, I counted to ten and waited. It was still happening, the ongoing rumble of thunder. Something huge had just touched off to the west. Pulling a face in the dark, I whispered, " _Kasr Luten…_ "

* * *

To humans the cataclysmic explosion, heard at a fair distance, was uncomfortable. A pair of ears with far greater sensitivity magnified the sound to a blisteringly loud roar of spine-tingling proportions. Clasping one hand over her ear, Izuru watched the western horizon turn a bright orange. The tall ramparts around Kasr Luten were outlined in bright flames, paling however to the inferno that completely obscured the inner citadel; what would have been the centrepoint of Luten's defence. Familiar with scorched-earth tactics, Izuru put aside her apathy for a moment, letting her imagination run away with her. Would the humans have evacuated the fortress-city beforehand? Or were they so mired in fanaticism that all must perish by the hand of their masters rather than the hand of the enemy. Mass suicide struck her as odd, out of place. This was the homeworld of the Cadian Shock Troopers, and here they were blowing up their very own cities in the face of the enemy and retreating rapidly rather than fighting tooth and nail for every inch of ground. There must have been some strategy to it, Izuru pondered. The imperial general, whoever he was, would have his reasons for the general retreat; some grand strategic manoeuvre was hidden up his sleeve possibly. Perhaps it was Chaos that should be worried about being lured into a well-orchestrated envelopment. Their – the humans' – unpredictability and military cunning were their only redeeming trait. In some cases a tiny few might have been on Eldar levels of deviousness. Very, very few cases.

Izuru's eyes were fascinated by the magnitude of the destruction. So captivated she was that it was with a certain reluctance that she tore her gaze from the far-off blaze, and turned her back.

A brief change in the wind bore a newer smell, one that made her sinuses tingle. It was no burning structure, for that came from the west. This new smell was coming from the east.

 _Human. Dead. Two days,_ Izuru deduced. But whether the human was mercenary, cultist, or imperial, she did not know. She was tempted to return to the Ranger bivouac, skirting around the immolating Kasr, for she had strayed further east than she had intended. Beyond Kasr Luten was wilderness, nowhere she wanted to be when the sun rose.

Holding her Arowana in her right hand, Izuru gathered speed, flying lithely across the grass and tree roots, leaving only the faintest whisper behind her. As she passed, the blades of grass underneath her feet dislodged dew, dampening the hems of her baggy oversuit. The mask of the Ranger she could feel slowly slipping back over her face, divesting her of compassion, remorse, all traces of feeling. She was the hunt.

* * *

 _Otto Rinek._

The tankie's grey, lifeless face stared up at me with half-closed, dry eyes, the head tilted at an angle where the neck had broken, now permanently frozen; as the rigor mortis had done to the other appendages. What disturbed me then, upon seeing Rinek's face, was not because I cared, but rather I did not care. There was no sentimentality, no remorse, no last words spoken. Nothing was said at all, for it would make no difference. _This man is gone, move on._

Pressing down hard on Rinek's eyelids to shut them I peered around, listening for any disturbances. Aside from the slight ringing in my right ear, something I had picked up from Nemtess, the woods were silent.

Rinek would be marked a coward now, and his family prosecuted for their sons' crime. For suicide was a major offence. The culprit, unable to stand in a court, would have his place taken by his next of kin, and they would take the fall. It threw the question at me: why did you do it?

Sitting back on my haunches, I brooded over how normal conducting business with the dead was now, and how little it affected me. _Are you real?_ _Can I trust what my eyes see anymore?_ I gazed down at the hollow cheeks on Rinek's face. An imaginary force was sucking Rinek down into the ground, burying him almost entirely but leaving the face above the earth. Entranced, I saw a trickle of blood run from a tear duct. The vision broke abruptly, and Rinek was lying in front of me again.

Passing my hand over my straining eyes, I slid my knife back into its sheathe then made to pick Rinek up. Sighing from the weight, I grimaced as the terrific smell infested my hair and clothes. Even after death, Otto Rinek was considerably heavy, despite being of average height. I did not even begin to think about how I would carry him through the killing zone without accidentally kicking a can of stones or setting off a trip flare.

Rakka, as if supported by a forest of giant legs, had uprooted from where it should have been, and found somewhere else to establish itself. Malcontent with remaining where it was, where I remembered, the firebase was much further away than before. Had I really come that far? I thought, taking small steps forwards with Rinek on my shoulders. So exhausting carrying the slung Castra and Rinek's bulk, my legs compelled me to halt every few minutes. A stronger, taller man would have had no trouble with the body. I was small, underweight, tired, and unused to bearing such a heavy load.

A sudden impact from behind struck me off-balance, dropping me to my knees. A tree branch must have whipped me in the back. Closing my eyes I strained to regain my feet. A scant second after the 'branch' hit me I heard the distant shot.

 _Sniper._

Throwing Rinek off, I dropped to the ground, hugging the grass. Conscious that, because of the range, I would hear the round hitting before the report, I dragged Rinek over to me and placed his body in front of mine, using it as a bullet shield. Shaking, my body trembling from nervous excitement, I waited for the follow-up shot.

 _Thump_. I felt the hammer blow on Rinek's torso and heard the shot a moment after. A rising panic began to take a hold of me. The will to fight or fly was overtaken by the overwhelming desire to make myself as small as possible, and hope the sniper would go away.

 _Get ahold of yourself!_ My mind angrily chided. Holding my breath I awaited the third shot. The sniper, aware that he had incapacitated and maybe killed his target, steadfastly held his fire. Nothing further disturbed the night. Swallowing, I realised my mouth was dry. With the exception of weapons and ammunition I was empty-handed. A canteen sloshing around would have made noise.

" _Okay…_ " Still holding onto Rinek with one hand, I brought my Castra around, and rested it on his body, aiming it vaguely at where the noise had come from. Slowly I eased the leaf sights up and placed the stock in my shoulder. From the sound difference in between the round impact and the muzzle report, I roughly assumed the sniper was nearly outside the Castra's effective range of 350 metres. Or was it the close terrain effecting the noise and the sniper was much closer? Counter-sniping, to me, was a fancy term that belonged somewhere in the Tactica, and I did not have the slightest knowledge in how it worked beyond listening to where the shots were coming from then calling for artillery to waste the general area.

All was quiet. The sniper, fully aware of my position, was lying waiting for me to make a move. He had all night, and very likely a special night-vision device on his rifle. For how else did he spot me so easily, in wooded terrain and at such a considerable range?

No, the Castra was useless. Imagining employing the Castra at first, it slowly dawned on me that, between the many tree trunks, branches, and the weapon's firing arc, the counter-fire would never reach the sniper. The only confirmed would be tree branches. I could easily imagine the sniper laughing behind his sights as the helpless imperial soldier tried to counter-sniper him with his clumsy grenade launcher, putting out six rounds per minute, whilst he could manage five times' that many, and would not miss on his third shot.

 _Fight or flight_. Suddenly flight seemed the most sensible decision, and one I wished I had chosen immediately after coming under fire. Slowly I began to back away, pulling Rinek with me. Nothing harried my retreat. The sniper must have been displacing, moving to a new position where he could put me down for good. I trembled again. Accompanying the fear was excitement. Nothing hysterical, just a bubbling, warming elation that death was closing in, ready to grant me what I had craved during my last hours on Nemtess.

 _I am running_ , I said inwardly. _I have been running forever_. _Running and hiding from everything. Stop running_. The idea that came to me then could hardly be described as the proper method of dealing with a sniper, but it – anything – was worth trying.

* * *

 _Where did you go?_ Izuru lay motionless beside a tree, her Arowana rested on a knobbly tree root. The tiny chevron in the centre of her sights was centred on the wide space between the trees where the strange, hunch-backed figure had fallen before crawling out of sight. Unfamiliar with the way the sights were zeroed, Izuru had landed a shot in the target's upper back, as opposed to his heart, a kill-shot, then hit him again where his figure had fallen on the ground; eliminating him for certain. _Two down_ , _eight remaining,_ Izuru counted. Rising from her nest slowly, she stole forwards, covering the 200 metres in a little over fifteen seconds. A ponderous pace, her kin would have described her. But better to err on the side of caution.

Leaving her Arowana resting against a tree, Izuru drew her knife, and stalked towards the human-shaped lump. The grass rustled underneath her feet, dislodging moisture when her baggy sleeves and trouserlegs rubbed. Leaves parted; their protests obnoxiously loud. _I am as noisy as the breeze on a spring day_ , Izuru noted calmly, loud enough to draw the attention of her kin at least. Humans were different however. Humans were slow and clumsy, their senses dull and unattuned. This one was nothing. Izuru rolled the body over with her foot, curious that it was not the hunch-backed figure she had spotted before but a quite normal-looking human being. And he smelt. His scent was what had drawn her.

 _You are not alone_ , Izuru tensed, spreading her feet, and raising her knife in front of her face, aiming the blade outwards. _Make yourself known to me, human. I know you are nearby._

* * *

My heart thudded rapidly inside my chest. So wound up by the tension I fought to keep myself still and quiet, suppressed the urge to giggle. Clutching my knife tightly, I balanced on a tree branch twenty feet above where I had left Rinek's body. _Where are you?_ I I watched for the sniper, closing in to confirm his kill. Clamping my jaw shut when my teeth began to chatter, I began to bite on a nail, slowly working along each finger. All five dirty fingernails on my left hand were chewed through when a shadow darted beneath my perch. Startling me, despite fully anticipating his appearance, I wobbled unsteadily, nearly losing my balance.

There he was. A tall, slim form wearing a two piece camouflaged oversuit with hood drawn. Oddly fluid in his movements, I watched him stop before Rinek and kick him over with his foot. _He knows!_ I shifted in my squat atop the branch when the sniper glanced up from the body and raised his knife. _Do it now!_

Steeling myself, I leant forwards and dropped, too late realising I would land two feet behind instead of directly on top of him. My misjudgement, so easy to make in the dark, made me land exactly where I was aiming. The loud _clump_ of boots in the grass drew the sniper's attention immediately, so much that when I lunged from behind he whirled, his elbow raised, and delivered a sharp blow to my forehead. Pivoting in the opposite direction he jabbed his knife at my torso. But in the dark he too made a miscalculation and as opposed to sinking his blade into my soft belly, it punched through one of the magazine pouches on my belt, jamming inbetween the stacked rounds with a harsh scrape of metal on metal.

Head throbbing from the blow, I drove my knife in sideways, seeking out any soft flesh in the eight-inch blade's path. Avoiding the sharp point, the sniper grabbed and twisted my wrist, striking it again and again to slacken my grip, forcing my knife to drop at my feet where he kicked it away into the grass with his foot. Unable to remove his knife from where it was jammed, the sniper hooked a foot behind my ankle and shoved me over. Gasping on my back, I kicked upwards viciously in between his legs, my boot's toecap connecting with the sniper's groin. But where I should have felt the man's testicles crushing against his skin, there was nothing but thin air. _He's got no balls!_ The thought flashed across my mind. _What sort of monster is he?_

My question was answered when the sniper emitted a distinctly feminine grunt, a low, exclamation made through gritted teeth. The revelation that the sniper was a woman did not alarm me, what did though was the lack of pain she felt, and the startling ease of which she brushed off the groin attack.

Kicking out again, I arched my back. This time my boot came up directly underneath her chin, snapping her head back. Falling onto her backside, the sniper probed through the grass searching for my knife she had kicked away, seeking a substitute for hers, which still protruded from my pocketed magazine.

Rolling over, I regained my feet and flew over to the sniper just as she came back up with my knife. Putting force behind my foot, I kicked at her arm, knocking it, and the knife away, sending it flying off into the bushes. Again unarmed, the sniper gripped me in a tight hug as I attempted, awkwardly, to break her neck. Unable to find the strength, I clamped a hand over her jaw, forcing her mouth shut, feeling hot breath and spittle fly out from behind my palm. Still locked together tightly, my fingers probed upwards, pressing into her nose then digging into her eyes. Unable to open her mouth fully, the sniper made a half-moan, half high-pitched screech, trying to lift me off her. Rolling over and over, we floundered into Rinek's body, squashing it as both of us careered over it and down a slight slope.

* * *

The faceless human, vicious despite his small form, removed his fingers from Izuru's eyes, and tried to rip off her hood, ending up gripping her hair tightly. Ramming her fist into his side, Izuru heard a pained grunt, and a sob when she hit him a second time. Opening her mouth, drool dripping from her chin, Izuru tried to sink her teeth into his hand as he forced her head back. Blindly she scrabbled for the knife hilt, wedged in the human's magazine pouch tightly, finding purchase and dragging it out.

Straddling the human, Izuru could feel his strength slowly ebbing, by the punitive blows he was dealing to her chest and face. They were aggressive enough for fighting other humans, for he might have stood a chance then, but not for Eldar. This one was hers.

Plunging the knife down, Izuru was surprised when the human wrapped his hands around the blade and halted its path. The point, bloody from the human's cut palms, now hovered directly his chest, and would not budge.

"Give up, you don't stand a chance!" The spittle flew from Izuru's mouth, spraying over the upper body and the cap that had been knocked over the human's face. "Let us end this here. It will be easier for you, much easier. You will see it will be over quickly!" Her words were spoken unconsciously in her own tongue, incomprehensible for the helpless soldier. But it was what all humans deserved to hear in their final dying breath.

* * *

"Bloody hell, Stickie!" I gurgled, horrified at hearing the familiar voice. The knife point, dripping with my blood, wavered then pressed down, the point connecting with the material of my jacket then slowly working through the layers. Shaking my head, begging silently, I tilted my head upwards. Izuru Numerial's face leered down at me, eyes blazing in a savage, twisted snarl.

"No. No." Tears fell from my eyes, running down my cheeks and across my ears.

The fire extinguished from Izuru's eyes. All ferocity left and was replaced by a flat, stare of acute dismay. Panting, Izuru removed the knife from where it had left a shallow piercing on my skin, and straightened up, examining it with morbid curiosity. Still lying flat on my back, I swallowed and saw, through a blurry view, Izuru's mouth open and close continuously. Glancing about herself, her shoulders beginning to heave, Izuru cradled the knife in her hands, nearly choking from grief before hurling it away with all her strength. Then, hugging her shoulders, she gazed up at the night sky and groaned huskily.

Wriggling backwards, I found a tree trunk to rest against. An odd feeling in my ribs, sharp and aching made me bite my lip to stave off the pain. Other bruises and scrapes to my knees, hands, legs, and arms hurt, the prick of pain in my chest stung; every other part of my being felt numb.

I half expected the quietly crying stickie to disappear from existence, as if she was some part of my being, the darkness that lurked within me. But no, she existed. And right then she was kneeling, her legs spread wide, her head tilted skywards; frozen.

Overcoming my body's wish to shut down completely and pass out, I leant wearily on the tree as I got up, remembering Rinek. The stickie was still staring upwards with closed eyes when I stumbled past, ignoring her. She did not seem aware and remained trance-like, but it did not last long.

" _Koruan!_ " Izuru cried in grief.

"Speak bloody gothic, for god's sake," I muttered resentfully, wiping my eyes dry.

"Apologies. I apologise! I am sorry!" Izuru babbled. "By the flame of Asuryan I would take it all back were it possible."

Glancing back over my shoulder I said contemptuously, "are we gonna do this every other week? Knock the shit out of one another?"

Izuru's head, now uncovered, was bowed in sorrow. "I wish to confess. I have fallen so far from what I was, that I no longer know who I am."

"Talk to the chaplain," I grunted, "doubt he'd believe you either."

Otto Rinek was where I had left him. My Castra was lying a short distance away, where it had fallen from my shoulder during the fight. Slinging the weapon, I moved over to Rinek and found the stickie was blocking my path. Towering over me – my eyes were level with the tip of her chin – I shook my head and stepped around her.

"Keladi—?" Izuru spoke agitatedly.

"Nothin' doing," I said gruffly. "Haven't seen her since before we landed. Prob'ly dead."

Gripping my arm, firmly but not fiercely, Izuru's expression turned intense, "I love that girl like a sister. You promised to watch out for her, to protect her!"

Staring up at the strangely mesmerising pair of eyes, one with the pupil larger than the other, I replied flatly, "they murdered love and threw it in a mass grave."

Relinquishing her hold, Izuru sighed, "I do not believe that. I will not believe it."

Trying to ignore the tall stickie, I manoeuvred Rinek onto my shoulders. "Don't be 'ere tomorrow 'cause Zeke's gonna be rolling through here in force."

"Zeke?"

"Chaos bastards. And we ain't got contact yet. Bloody waiting's killing us," I trudged forwards, aware the stickie was by my side. "And where the fuck are your people, uh? You made a big show about coming here with the big guns to 'elp us out. But all I see is _you._ You're on yer own, aren't you, 'cause they wouldn't send anyone to help out the humans; am I right?"

"It is different… we did come, we-we," Izuru trailed off. "They were gone, all gone. My-my entire command, gone."

 _Bloody aliens_ , I sneered. _No idea how to fight._ Aloud I said, "and now I've got you. _Again_."

"You do not _have_ me," Izuru stopped and glared. "Were you any other human you would be in the same grave as your comrade; a far better person than you are."

"Bollocks, you don't know 'im," I shot a glance at her. "He's one o' mine. Been 'round Nemtess in his track, wasting Zeke left an' right; a real killer."

"Otto Rinek, his name is Otto Rinek. I was there too. Or can your human mind simply not comprehend such a phenomenon?" Izuru sniped.

"How the—?" I decided not to ask. "So what 'appened with Marcia then?"

"Macha… I could not best her," Izuru shuddered. "Were it not for my mentor's arrival, I would have been executed, my family too. I had the gods' favour that day."

"Pfft. I dunno though," I strained underneath Rinek's weight.

"What drew me was the smell."

"What, you weren't distracted by the Kasr going up like a torch?"

"Rinek has been dead for several days…"

"Stating the bloody obvious but yeah, yeah he took on a self-imposed real estate deal."

"Self-imposed…" Confused, Izuru made a face.

"He hung himself," I pointed out impatiently. "He's a coward and a criminal."

"Hanged. And how could you say such things. You dishonour him!" Izuru looked aghast. "On Ulthwé we reward a warrior for valour displayed in battle, we do not punish."

"Yeah well, they're gonna prosecute his family 'cause Rinek offed himself. It's a big offence."

"You humans," Izuru stopped once more, facing me again. "Such barbarism."

"Makes us good in battle though, more than I can say for your lot," I said, satisfied.

Izuru took a step towards me, her face darkening, "perhaps on balanced terms the battle shall be less even than before."

"You want to battle, Stickie? I'd do it with you 'ere if I didn't have him to worry about," I hefted Rinek, implying I was about to drop him and have a second crack at the stickie.

"You would be on your back in a heartbeat. No one would know where you came to rest," Izuru's eyes narrowed. "Such arrogance is punishable."

"Okay. Okay. But you ain't got no knife, and neither have I," I waggled my empty sheathe in emphasis. "And I can't do you with this," I lifted up my Castra. "Least from 'ere. Wonder what stickies look like in the inside, 'cause this Whupper will open you up good."

Looming over me, Izuru said, a hint of smugness in her voice, "I dare you."

"And I dare you to try and kill me," I replied, a ghost of a smile creeping across my mouth. "Been trying a lot these past months. Hasn't worked once."

"A lot has changed." The corners of Izuru's mouth twitched. She smiled back.

"Yep," I hoisted Rinek higher and moved off, "Rinek too."

"How?"

"Easy. He's not gonna be a coward anymore, 'cause you made him a hero." I raised my eyebrows, grinning weakly in farewell. "He's gonna be a hero 'cause he took a sniper's bullet meant for me."

Izuru watched in admiration as the violent little human staggered away, still resolutely carrying the dead Rinek on his shoulders. _Such odd creatures, these humans_.

It pained Izuru to lie to Larn, or at least not tell him the truth about whom she was serving under. All the posturing to the Tabors, about how no-one would kill him but her, it was all fine in saying it; vowing it even. But now, face-to-face once more, it struck her that killing him, if it came to it, would be a very difficult thing to do indeed. " _Be safe_ ," she whispered.


	21. Chapter 20

**Firebase Rakkassan, Cadia Secundus, 00:58 (Cadian Time)**

"Apple!" a quivering voice called out.

"Cobbler," I groaned, flagging under Rinek's weight. "Put that bloody grenade pin back in," I added quickly, when I heard the smooth _snick_ of the pin being removed.

"Who's that coming in?"

"Sarn't Larn, Ten Platoon. With Otto Rinek," I replied, staggering the last few paces up to the dark wall of sandbags.

"Otto who?" the voice hissed.

"Ye deaf? Otto Rinek," I growled at two black silhouettes that had their M-36s trained on me. "Well come up 'ere and take him. Look lively!"

Now close enough for them to get a good look at me, the two men on stag helped take Rinek off my shoulders. "Aw, he's heavy," one of them moaned.

"What 'appened out there?"

"Nah, fuck that. What was you doing beyond the wire?"

"'Aving a dekko, son," I panted, wiping my bloodstained hands on my trouserlegs. "Got contact."

"You got contact!" the man gasped, pulling his M-36 close. "Where? What?"

"Bloody sniper wasted Rinek. Nearly wasted me too," I slumped against the trench wall. Suddenly my muscles were all aching, and everywhere was numb. "What a lad Rinek was too. Never made a sound when the sniper zipped him first time. Second time he was proper wasted. Bloody sniper cunt," I spat; realising there was blood in my mouth. "You hear any o' that?"

"Nah, Sarn't. You must've been bloody miles away. How long was you out?"

"Dunno, Private." I rested my head briefly. Sleep beckoned.

"Is that who I think it is?" a sneering voice came from the darkness. 2nd Lieutenant Ehle, the moment he made his presence known, had the two privates scurrying away. "Sarn't Larn, is that your man defacing my trench?"

"Don't think he's anyone's man now, sir," I replied dozily.

"Come with me," Ehle beckoned. With no other option I got up and followed, dragging my feet as he led me to the CP. The dull numbness, the lack of feeling, the lack of realisation about what had happened in the last few hours had not yet begun to catch up, leaving me in a state of vague awareness, with all systems non-essential to the body's propulsion offline. I was on autopilot.

Captain Meller, once Ehle explained what he believed was the truth to him, quietly dismissed Ehle, then turned to me. "You'll be expecting me to lecture you on disobeying orders, Sarn't, as Lieutenant Ehle has just stated. In the event of you temporarily deserting your post to perform an unofficial recce of the AO I would not say that you _did_ necessarily disobey your orders; which are to hold your ground. _But._ Normally I would look the other way, for such irregular actions can be of benefit to this unit. However, due to the manner in which you conducted the excursion, I am afraid I must take action. Losing a soldier whilst carrying out orders is – in some cases – unavoidable, but this was an authorised, unsanctioned foray which ended with your partner KIA and could have been easily prevented had you not gone beyond the wire. What do you say to this?"

With a trembling heart, I lied through my teeth. "Sir, Corporal Rinek saved my life. He took two rounds from a sniper for me. I did notice signs of psychological trauma in Corporal Rinek lately. He was a tankie on Nemtess. He lost all his crew, his family, sir. I think it's what he would've wanted."

"Corporal Rinek was in your care," Meller's expression hardened. "Deathwish or not, it was not down to Rinek to decide the time and manner of his death but fate; fate and the Imperial Guard."

"He's a hero, sir," I said the words, feeling rotten inside about it even when I knew I shouldn't. I was saving Rinek from disgrace, and his family.

"It certainly appears so. His body will be prepared for departure tomorrow. I will make certain to mention him to the major."

"Thank you, sir," I felt a great weight lift from my heart.

"Staff Sarn't Perandis will take over the running of Ten Platoon. After roll-call tomorrow you will report to CQMS."

"Sir?" I fought to control a muscle spasm in my jaw. "Sir, I don't understand…"

"Tomorrow. CQMS. You're working for him now," Meller said flatly. "Does that make sense."

"S-sir, we're gonna get contact with Zeke in the next day or two," I stammered. "I've gotta be there."

"Zeke does not concern you, Sarn't. You won't be able to make a difference by yourself if Zeke does show. You are just one man."

I dearly wanted to speak up, to explain how wrong he was. But he was my OC. And I was in enough trouble already. _For Rinek, all for Rinek,_ I thought. However bad I felt over lying to an officer, it was the right thing to do; I was certain it was the right thing to do. Closing my mouth, I gritted my teeth and replied, " _yes, sir_."

"Is that blood?" Meller looked down at my hands. Blood was indeed running down my fingers. "Cut them on the barbed wire?"

"Yes, sir."

"See they're treated. That's all, Sarn't."

"And I'm led to believe the wire did that to your face?" Ral Bleak, tying the dressings around my hands, nodded up at my face. "You trip and fall out there?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah I did," I nodded quickly in return.

"Can you stow that body somewhere else?" Someone lying on the other side of the aid station complained. "It fucking stinks. Smells like he's been dead for days."

Ral glanced over at Otto Rinek's body then back at me, "Sniper was it?"

"Yeah," I said stonily. "Took two rounds, never made a sound. Right fucking lad he was."

"Strange how he got those marks on his neck," Ral said mildly. "Like he was garrotted or something…"

Fixing Ral with an intense stare, I whispered, "not a word."

Ral gave me a knowing look. "It's funny 'cause I hear tell we had a missing man a few days back."

"Ral, don't. Don't let out that he offed himself. He ain't no coward. I know. I was there on Nemtess."

"We all were."

"I'm doin' this for him," I jerked my head at Rinek's body. "Helping a mate out."

"Yeah. Yeah," Ral sat back and scratched his head. "It's fine. Some guys just can't take it anymore."

"Mmm," I swallowed. My throat was sore.

"So these bruises just appear?"

"You wouldn't believe me, mate. You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"A GSW case back on that stickie ship. A stickie woman, remember?"

"Comes back a bit fuzzy," Ral sucked in one cheek whilst trying to remember. "Truth be told I wanna forget all about that time after Nemtess. That was rough…"

"I don't wanna talk about Nemtess," I said. "I can't."

"Nah, course not. It's uh, fine." Still thinking, Ral took a cigarette from behind his ear and offered it to me. "Oh, oh!" he snapped his fingers, recalling the time on the stickie ship. "Been a while yeah, but I think I remember that one. Dark hair, odd eyes. One of them was bigger than the other; dilated!"

"Yeah, yeah, that's the one," I muttered. "We got a bad history, I'm ashamed to say."

"Uh?" Ral frowned. "You alright, Larn?"

"Been, how many planets now…?" I counted in my head. "Platis, Grendel, Nemtess, and now here. Everywhere I go she pops up behind her sniper rifle. Bloody mad I tell ye."

"Hm, sounds like she can't get enough of you," Ral snorted, scratching his ear. "Dunno how I'd feel if I had the eye of a xeno."

"Nah trust me, she's a holy terror in hand-to-hand," I unbuttoned my jacket and shirt then lifted up my vest, showing Ral the shallow red mark the knife had left. "If it'd been anyone else, I'd be lying wasted out there 'cause I wasn't man enough to beat a bloody girl in a fight."

Seeing the dried blood around the wound, Ral slapped a dressing in my hand, "bang that on there now. And don't say that, I know plenty of hard women that'll knock you out in three. No shame in losing. Besides, I wouldn't want to go hand-to-hand with a stickie. It wasn't all one-sided was it?"

"Nah," I winced, rolling a shoulder. "Nah, I banged her up good. Least I hope I did."

Ral smiled.

"Not like that," I glared at his amusement.

"Any grass stains on your arse?" he tittered.

"Aw leave it alone, dirty twat," I groaned, resting my forehead in my hand. "That's Article 104 stuff that."

"Oh, that bad?"

"Yeah. Anyway I'm working for CQMS now," I said, hoping to sway Ral's mind away from the stickie. "Any gen on him? Is he a cunt or a really massive cunt?"

"I dunno, mate. I've never been over to stores."

"Bugger," I tutted, "'cause I got Rinek wasted officially I'm taking the fall for him. Dunno how I feel 'bout that."

"Takin' one for the team's noble," Ral grinned. "Big respect."

"Hate myself for doing it."

"Nah, you're a good bloke, just you think you're not."

"Rinek was a good bloke…"

"And you are too. You'll get platoon back. Just you gotta go through the mill a bit. Who knows? CQMS might not be such a dossbag."

"He's a supply wallah. What he gets, he keeps. There's no word for charity in his book," I said, buttoning up my jacket. "Just hope I won't be pushing too many pencils when Zeke turns up, 'cause I wanna be there getting trigger-time with you lot."

"All I can say is play nice. The more positive you are, the greater the likelihood of you getting your platoon back. Who's taking over anyway?"

"Perandis. Hey just make sure Meller or Corta or anyone sees Rinek. They might get suspicious."

"Hmph, I'll do my best. He's starting to smell though. Hopefully when the crow comes back tomorrow we can get him lifted out. All good now?"

"Yeah. Cheers for the plasters." I hopped down from the box I was sitting on and picked up my Castra.

"Are you making sleeping sounds at Ten Platoon?"

"Yup. Only 'til tomorrow, then it's over to CQMS."

Bidding Ral goodnight I went on a bimble. There was a definite chill in the air now which I hadn't noticed when beyond the wire. So exhausted after the scuffle with Izuru and hauling Rinek back on my shoulders, I found myself wide awake, so much so that I did not feel like falling asleep. My aversion to sleep made me wander around aimlessly in the dark, ending up in the mess, where I sat on one of the crude, foldout benches and stared away into space.

"Izuru," I muttered, the realisation hitting me only then. My combats were stained with something also. I could not see just what it was in the dark, but it felt crusty and coarse. In a muddle, I left the mess and strayed over to the tiny washing area. The walk-in hut, buried in sandbags on the outside, had two rows of eight sinks, both facing one another. Mounted above each were small mirrors used for shaving. Using what little light there was, I leant in close to a mirror and rubbed a hand down both cheeks. Sore, bruised skin underneath my fingers complained at the pressure. Grazes and cuts on my elbows and knees irritated incessantly. Purple rings stood out underneath dull, reddened eyes.

 _Sea salt._

Izuru's skin and hair had smelt of sea salt. The sharp, bitter taste was somehow clinging to my eyebrows and stinging my lips, revolting me so much I stuck my head underneath a rusty tap and held it under the icy water for several seconds, trying to wash the salt away.

Weariness dispensed, I was now fully awake. Gasping, I looked up at the mirror and wiped my dripping face on my sleeve, sniffing as water dripped from the tip of my nose. The slow pitter-patter of rain, quiet outside, had grown into a steady drumbeat as droplets began to plaster the dugout roof.

Holding a hand over my thudding heart, I inhaled slowly, wincing at the spike of pain in my lower chest. The rage, fear, and desperation I had felt when at the end of the knifepoint seemed like distant memories of another person; a person whom I could scarcely believe was in fact I. Shivering violently all of a sudden, I folded my arms across my chest and covered my eyes, fearful of what might have happened had Izuru not recognised me through that fit of alien bloodlust. Animal ferocity was in her eyes then, so bright and passionate. Wishing, wanting my death with every fibre of her being. God, she frightened me; murderous one minute and pleasant the next.

Casting about for unfriendly eyes spying on me, I allowed myself to become a frightened boy again, just for that moment. Alone I could shed the armoured layers of my shell and let loose what I kept locked up inside, what, and who I carried with me. Little Larn felt his throat contract, stifling the air, and bringing up small sobs. Only in the aftermath did I realise it. _She could have killed me_ _there. She was death._

* * *

 **Southern banks of the River Luten, 01:36**

Tiny ripples swept across the river as the pebble broke the surface, scattering the mirror-like image, distorting Izuru Numerial's features. Barefoot and in only her skin-tight under-armour, Izuru knelt on the grassy riverbank, gazing despondently down at her dirty, scratched, bruised face. The words _would-be murderer_ , _unrepentant, unforgiving_ rang like gongs in her mind, filling her heart with a sickening fear. The warmask she had felt slipping back into place had exerted a fierce control over her like none she had ever felt before. Outright murder, with the victim visibly pleading for his life, had gone over her head completely. To her it was right, and needed no justification. It was war. And it was him or her.

 _I could have killed him. And I would not have given him a second thought._

Pulling her hair loose, Izuru ran her hands through the salted-encrusted, greasy strands over and over, hissing and growling in self-loathing, leaving it hanging over her eyes and ears messily. Plunging her head downwards into the water, Izuru opened her eyes wide and screamed. _FREAK!_

Hauling herself out and shaking off the water, Izuru's shoulders sagged. The ache in her belly and groin had grown, much more with former as the glue sealing the wound grew old. Closing her eyes she began meditating, gradually shutting her senses down one by one until all that remained was the mind. _Isha, I have forsaken my vows, both as a ranger and as an Eldar. I crave a light. Shine your guidance upon my path, for it is dark and filled with fear and uncertainty._ But The Mother offered no guidance, nor even a reply. Izuru was alone.

Kasr Luten burned bright, brighter even than the distant fires raging across the river on Cadia Primus. Scarring the Luten were slicks of flaming promethium leaking from ruptured fuel pipelines on Primus. Bodies face down in the black water bobbed amidst the flames, their burnt clothing fused to their skin. The smell was carried across the Luten by the wind, whirling around Izuru, enshrouding her in a haze of grey ash that stunk of cinders and dead flesh. To her left, the fires in the Kasr had spread over the walls where stockpiles of ammunition had burst their magazines, hurling showers of pink sparks into the night sky. The heat had arisen too. Even over three hundred yards from the outer buttresses, the warmth was uncomfortable on Izuru's skin.

Half-naked, emaciated cultists writhed about before the flames, dancing and shrieking. Some running around in the open, leaping through fires they had constructed for fun. Brawls were in progress. The belligerents, laying into one another in groups or even one-on-one, clamoured wildly, punching, kicking, falling over one another, beating each other senseless with crude, handmade weaponry. Indiscreet orgies were happening with both men and women mounting one another and squealing with pleasure, with not a care for the intense heat that licked at their skin.

Izuru paid not a single thought to the human filth as she approached the Ranger bivouac, keeping to the shadows, out of the cultists' view. No words would be spared for those subhuman degenerates as long as they lived. Only when the last was eradicated would Izuru regard their demise with satisfaction. That was all they warranted.

Poring over the fresh set of maps that had just been delivered to the Rangers by courier, Lysell Talvera held his unlit cigarette over a black speck twelve klicks to the east of the block that was Kasr Luten then gestured at a road that branched off the main east-west route. "Now the enemy has abandoned this Kasr we are free to exploit further. We have two routes: Highway Six running south past Luten to the Korg mountains, or further east to this screen of firebases along the riverbank. Our heavy support will be with us within forty-eight hours minimum. In the meantime we will recce the nearest firebase and the mountain pass, get a feel for the enemy's strength. Remind them the Cyrric Rangers are reconnoitring their positions in force."

The nine other officers and NCOs, either sitting at the foldout table the maps were laid on, or standing behind, listened intently. A few smoked. Talvera's 2IC, Lieutenant Marcos Hassid, nodded firmly in agreement.

"Now that we have reached our objective, the enemy will expect us to hold our position and adopt defensive posture." Talvera swiped a hand through the air, "no! We are an aggressive reconnaissance unit, and we will recce aggressively. The Cyrric Rangers will not sit idle whilst the enemy shores up his defences. At zero five-thirty I want engines running. Hassid, you will take our motorcycle scouts down Highway Six and follow on with a platoon. Take the lascannon with you. Those not in Hassid's platoon will punch east along the river with me, and get eyes on the closest firebase. Honour and fidelity."

"Honour and fidelity," the others muttered.

Chairs were pushed back as the mercenaries rose and quietly filed out of the tent, returning to their respective guntrucks to prepare for the step-off. Talvera exchanged a few words with Hassid before the latter left too.

Leaning back in his chair at the back of the tent, Talvera took his lighter from the breast pocket of his smock and lit up. "I supposed you heard all that now?" he said aloud.

Izuru had waited patiently for the other mercenaries to depart, and now, with Talvera alone, she stepped through the narrow slit. The mercenary commander was slouched in a chair smoking. At Izuru's arrival he smiled wryly. "Not social creatures are you?"

Saying nothing, Izuru placed a hand on one of the maps and twisted it around. Alongside it were black and white photos taken by reconnaissance aircraft. One in particular caught her eye. It was a human starship half-buried in the ground. Amidships and the aft section were jutting upwards at a shallow angle. Even from the grainy photographs she recognised the structure. It was Space Marine pattern, there was no mistaking it.

"No Sacra tonight, Sniper. Not before an operation." Talvera pressed a finger to his temple and squinted. "You've fired that rifle. I trust it was with good reason."

"An enemy firebase is not far away," Izuru murmured.

"We know that."

"Did you know that a unit of Space Marines are garrisoned there?"

"I did not," Talvera rose and studied the photos on the opposite side of the table. "There was initial concern about Marines in the area of operations. This ship here is Marine-pattern," Talvera reached up to steady a lamp hanging from a hook then aimed a finger at the photo Izuru had studied. "A cruiser or heavy frigate perhaps. Difficult to tell from these images. Did you see with your own eyes?"

"From afar," Izuru, thinking quickly, began to lie. "Marine infantry garrison this firebase here," she indicated a blown-up image of a roughly circular set of dugouts bordered by black fields of barbed-wire. "The imperials gave ground to reinforce the ruse that they are retreating. They are stronger than you believe. Why did they give up one of their precious Kasrs?"

"The Cyrric Rangers will recon the enemy's positions nonetheless. We shall recon in force, for the the violence of action shall be to our advantage," Talvera brought a hand down on the table. "Do what the enemy least expects us to do. Attack."

"Then attack with the cultists first," Izuru leant forwards, wearing a mask of urgency, trying to sway Talvera to her. "They are expendable, so expend them. One of your Rangers' lives is worth ten – twenty of theirs."

Talvera glanced up from the maps, his eyes twinkling. "You have a compelling voice, Sniper. Many men in the past will have no doubt been swayed by your words. But at the end of the day you are still just a xeno; and I am human. A proud officer of the Cyrric Rangers is what I am. And I do not take orders from your kind. Not now. Not ever. If your eyes and rifle are all I can rely on, then what was it that you were engaging?"

"When idle, I find something to kill."

"What business does a sniper have in hand-to-hand combat? Or did you think I would not notice what is under your hood?" Talvera eyed her steadily.

"He is dead," Izuru pulled back the slack in her hood, drawing it up her forehead, showing Talvera her face. "It was not clean."

"You should have taken him prisoner. The information he might have had would have been useful," Talvera shook his head in disappointment. "Get out of here. Go and find your friends, the Tabors. I have no more use for you, Sniper."

Loathing the mercenary commander more and more, Izuru swept out of the tent, flinging both flaps outwards as she went. _Come the morrow and you may find_ _the Cyrric Rangers no longer answer to you, human,_ Izuru thought, a scheme beginning to form in her mind.

Woulter Leurbach sat against the wheel of a guntruck, Peter beside him. The two were now unofficial highlanders, having been accepted by the other Gellens, if only partly so. Callum Lorne, Donal Tsak, Ben Borens, and the rest were still in their company. Not a single one wished to mingle with the cultists, and the mercenaries were all strangers to them.

"Dad," Peter nudged Woulter. "Dad, it's the stickie."

On the verge of dozing off, Woulter started when a tall shadow fell across him.

"Do not trust these soldiers of fortune," the stickie hissed vehemently.

The Highlanders, Lorne and Tsak especially, paled at the xeno's sudden appearance. She was different, angry, distraught, Woulter realised. Something had changed in her.

"You look like you been in the wars," Woulter struggled to his feet, shocked when the stickie drew her hood back, showing the swelling bruises on her cheeks and brow.

"It bleeds," Lorne remarked when the stickie wiped away a trail of blood dripping from her nose.

"Aw no, no more o' this," Borens, a Vintok Carbine in his hands, rose and advanced upon the stickie angrily.

"Borens, sit down!" Lorne snapped.

Woulter saw the spike bayonet, unfolded beneath the barrel, glinting in the light from the distant fires. Borens held his carbine at port arms, thrusting it out before him towards the stickie. "Enough with this xeno! She's a fucking stickie," he spat, in a hysterical fury. "She ain't said one fucking word too. Not one word till now! Why?"

"This one's not enemy." Woulter, standing up, spread his arms wide and stepped between Borens and the stickie. "We're short of allies here. And we can't trust these mercs, like she said."

"Nah, this one's a lying, manipulative bitch." Borens was sweating. "And we've had enough of her."

"Yeah."

"Too right."

"Only good xeno's a dead one."

The other Gellens, minus Lorne and Tsak, assembled in a group around Borens, who hefted his bayonet menacingly.

"Oi, lay off," Tsak, dismayed at his brothers' sudden animosity towards the stickie, also placed himself in front of her. "We're here to kill imperials, aren't we? I couldn't care less 'bout this stickie, sure."

"Stand down, you mad lot," Lorne sauntered into the Gellens' midst, keeping a light tone. "Borens, raise your rifle. You're gonna have someone's eye out with it."

"Wha' 'bout the stickie bitch, uh?" Borens tried to shove Tsak aside, earning a shove from him back.

"Yeah, come on, let's string her up!"

"Nah, no-one's stringing anyone up!" Lorne shouted. "You'll make up one stickie life with many many imperials. They deserve it more than she does."

"She's gone," Woulter, glancing at where the stickie had stood, realised she had slipped away, unnoticed with all the arguing going on.

"Fuck me…" someone said.

"She's…," Borens gaped.

Where the stickie had been there remained only the footmarks left in the grass. _How does she do it?_ Woulter wondered.

"There. Gone for good" Lorne clapped his hands together. "Back in your fucking dossbags now, no more chat about it."

"I saw her," Peter said quietly when Woulter slumped next to him. "I saw her leave."

"I don't think it'll be the last we've seen of her," Woulter rested his head in one hand.

"Hope to Terra you're wrong," Lorne squatting beside them, wore a dark expression. "If she shows up again there'll be a lynching. My lads have had enough of xenos."

"She won't harm us—"

"You can't know that, you just can't. Them xenos don't think how we do. They just ain't civilised like us either."

"She – the stickie – she won't hurt us, Dad?" Peter asked after Lorne had gone.

"No, Peter."

"Why not?"

"Because she is a parent herself."

"They look like us. So does that mean they have babies like us? You said when a man and a woman love one another…"

"That you'll find out for yourself when you're older, Peter," Woulter ruffled his son's shoulder. "Sleep now. Be ready for an early start."

* * *

 **Kasr Kraf, Cadia Secundus, 06:49**

Fuelled by increasing concentrations of coffee and stimulants, General Ursarker Edgar Creed was beginning to feel the days-old fatigue catch up to him, hampering his judgment and making him twitchy and irritable.

It was before dawn on the fortieth day. Creed lay on a cot in a small side-chamber just off the operations room, his reading glasses in one hand, and a fragment of tapestry in the other. Burned by fire and tattered with age, the coloured cloth nonetheless meant the galaxy to Creed; even more than Cadia did.

 _Love is a smoke raised with the fumes of sighs. Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes. Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears. What is it else? A madness, most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserved sweet. For Ursarker and Elyzabeth. Life partners._

The fire had taken away most of the text but Creed knew it off by heart. Where it had originated – who had said it – Elyzabeth had told him many years ago. Time however had faded the name in Creed's mind, as had the memory of her face. Now Cadia was all that remained in his life.

A soft buzzing from the doorway intercom ripped Creed away from past memories. He became the lord castellan again; to his displeasure. "My Lord Castellan. Admiral Quarren is awaiting your presence, sir."

Awakening fully and somehow feeling wearier than when he had fallen asleep, Creed sat up in his cot, lifting his arms above his head and stretching, smarting at being referred to as lord castellan instead of his real military rank. At fifty-four, Creed was as fit as the nineteen and twenty year olds' in the shock battalions of 8th Infantry Brigade, his former appointment. At least, that was what he liked to think. Command was, more often than not, standing around issuing orders to units many miles away, and without ever even seeing the enemy. As a colonel, and the OC of 8th Brigade, Creed had been able to command closer to the frontline, being a lot more mobile in the field than back at General Headquarters. Such a physically inactive lifestyle was what generals had to reside to, for they had no business commanding troops on the frontline; it was simply not allowed.

"Yes," Creed growled, fumbling with the corners of his double-breasted khaki jacket he had loosened. "Tell the admiral I shall see him presently."

"Right away, My Lord Castellan."

Creed made to issue a harsh rebuttal but found his throat too sore to properly raise his voice. And besides, the aide, a staff officer, young too by his voice, was only following his orders. The fault was with the admiral. _Why pay a visit at such a peculiar hour and without prior notification? Confound it._

The glass of water on the chest beside Creed's cot was two-thirds empty and filled with little bubbles. Brushing it with a numb hand, Creed downed it and felt the lukewarm water soothe his throat, settling the headache he had after rising too quickly.

 _Cadia stands_ , he said inwardly, rolling his neck and buttoning up his tunic.

"Admiral," Creed greeted Quarren with a curt nod when he entered the command centre. Quarren was around fifty, and just as grey as Creed was. That was another thing command did: it aged people, the stress of it making them appear well beyond their years.

"General," Quarren replied with equal curtness. Disparaging of small talk, Quarren asked, "what is the situation on the ground currently?"

Pulling a cigar from his trouser pocket, Creed lit it and waved a hand across the map in the centre of the room showing Cadia Secundus. "Primus fell last week. Secundus is holding; for now. The battlelines are solidifying outside Kasr Stark. IV Corps is awaiting the enemy offensive. I Corps in the north are manning bastions in the Korg Mountains. II Corps are dug in on the Kolarak Plains. III Corps are being assailed in the south around Martyr's Rampart. The Templars there are holding ground."

"Very well. Are no plans for an evacuation, General? You requested that my battlegroup form a corridor for transports to leave the systems, which I approved. So far we have seen very few ships departing Cadia. The Chaos fleets' integrity, their will to fight, remains strong. We are hard-pressed to maintain this corridor for you."

Irritated a having to explain himself to the admiral, Creed said, "all non-essential personnel, non-Cadians, are being evacuated. This is a low-key operation, Admiral. Were word to spread that an evacuation is underway, morale would suffer greatly, and desertions would rise. At best we can get two to three ships out from Kraf airbase and up to the transports in orbit every six hours. What with disruptions from the bombing and the shuttle time, we are managing to lift very few men per day."

Quarren looked pensive. "Not having trouble from the civilians, are you?"

"No, Admiral. All evacuees are military personnel."

"Wounded?"

"As many as we can. But the enemy will specifically target our hospital ships so the wounded are being ferried out with the able-bodied."

"A wounded man takes the space of seven standing. Forgo evacuating the wounded. Focus on fit men. Men who can fight another day."

Creed balked at the thought of abandoning the wounded, any wounded to the enemy. "Admiral, this is a Guard operation—"

"—No longer," Quarren cut in. "This will be a joint operation. Your guardsmen and my sailors will work hand-in-hand to ensure the evacuation proceeds smoothly. Commander Cudden!"

"Yes, sir?" A younger naval officer in his forties, part of Quarren's three-man attaché, stepped forwards. Like with the other officers present, his gold-braided cap was clasped firmly underneath his arm, and he appeared to be sweating in his thick grey uniform.

"Jack, you will be on the ground at Kraf supervising. Think you'll be able to manage it?"

"Absolutely, sir," Cudden said.

From Cudden's confident demeanour he was apparently grateful that he was being given some meaningful authority, Creed noted, well aware that those that had never seen combat usually acted in that manner.

"Admiral, I already have a man overseeing the evacuation. He is Imperial Logistics Corps," Creed, not wanting to have his operation handed over to the Navy, put quickly.

"Has this officer of logistics experience in naval matters?" Quarren said coldly. "No. Far better an officer of the Navy commands alongside your man. It will be so."

"Can we count on your destroyers acting as terminus for the shuttles, Admiral? Many more men can be taken off if vessels larger than the transports lend their free space."

Thinking for a moment, Quarren said, "I will divert the destroyers Icarus and Basilisk from their squadron. They are all I can give you."

"Two destroyers shall pay dividends, Admiral. I might add that, as a further request, that you employ your Astropaths to keep broadcasting pleas for aid."

"Are yours being somewhat uncooperative?" Quarren asked icily.

"Were they uncooperative in life, it was seldom. The choir beacon our Astros need to broadcast communiques was in Kasr Luten. I sent an officer to retrieve it before the Kasr was abandoned. She is several days overdue. Without that beacon, our psykers are useless."

"I should mention, General, there is a lot of psychic turbulence in the system. Even our Astros are having difficulty in breaking through. The messages we are sending are being met with no reply. We do not know whether the turbulence is hampering our Astros or if they are simply unable to receive the messages in return."

"We need those reinforcements."

Coughing from the smoke in his lungs, Creed thumped his chest. "Very well. As long as the Navy keeps out from under our feet, there will be no problems. Sir, I have a battle to attend to."

"See that you win it," Quarren glowered. "My son's ship went down with all hands the day before yesterday. Make sure it was not in vain. Good morning."

"Good morning, Admiral." Creed watched as Quarren swept away. However much friction Creed felt there was between the Imperial Guard and Navy, it could only worsen with the two branches coordinating directly with one another.

 _Confound it,_ Creed glared down at the little shifting icons on the map, representing units from brigade upwards. Now he had to contend with the problem of both Zeke and the Navy. He needed a drink.

* * *

 **NW of Firebase Rakkassan, 06:43**

With scouts confirming the location of the enemy firebase three klicks to the south-east, Captain Talvera halted his vanguard of three guntrucks in a clearing and dismounted. Beside his Krupnok-mounted guntruck Talvera knelt with his other officers, spreading a map across the ground, indicating the firebase with a pencil. "This road swings around the dead zone and borders the firebase on the east flank; it's what we'll use to assault closer to the enemy. Meanwhile we send the cultists across the dead zone. They will trip the flares and set off the mines. And hopefully their bodies will fill some of the holes up so we won't have such a struggle crossing it later. Before all this can occur, we send the sappers in to clear lanes through the wire. Does that make sense?"

The officers replied in hushed tones. All knew what they were supposed to do, and all looked forwards to it.

"My Captain!" A voice whispered. One of the last of the scouts sent out had returned.

"Hey, what is it?" Talvera hissed at the breathless scout, who dropped to his knees beside him. "Catch your breath, Irne. Now tell me."

"No Marine presence at the firebase, My Captain."

"None?"

"Just regular infantry, My Captain. And I don't think they're Cadians either."

"No Marines, no Cadians…" Talvera muttered, rubbing his thumb across his fingers.

"And another thing, My Captain, there is someone else out here."

"…Was it a sniper?" Talvera asked slowly.

"It had a long rifle and was wearing some baggy suit. It wasn't her, was it…?" Irne's bright white eyes stood out from his blackened face. They were blinking nervously.

"If anyone sees the stickie again, shoot her," Talvera declared. "Don't bother taking her alive."

He had no use for liars, especially if they were imperial sympathisers.

Dismissing the officers, who went to brief the NCOs, Talvera folded up the map and placed it in the glove compartment. His driver, Ben Elsh, had left the drivers' seat and was guarding the truck with his Wex machine pistol. Propping his own folded Wex in the gap between the seat and gearstick, Talvera put a boot up on the bonnet and reached for a metal can of rats in the bag stuffed behind his seat. _Very clever of you, Stickie, but not clever enough,_ Talvera mused, twisting the metal strip off with his fingers. _There has yet to be someone who can outsmart Lysell Talvera. It could have been you, Stickie._

Talvera paused mid-mouthful when his ears detected the sound of an engine, louder and less purring than the light guntrucks he was used to. "Elsh?" Talvera put down his half-eaten can and picked up his Wex.

"Not one of ours," Elsh slung his Wex and climbed up onto the truckbed, taking ahold of the Krupnok and traversing it 180 degrees to aim at the unfamiliar noise.

"Hey, stand to!" Talvera called softly to the others. Not a man was sitting idle though. All had heard the engine and were poised, ready to engage. Good, each man was acting on initiative and had not needed to be ordered.

"My Captain, I can see him," Elsh's thumbs gently squeezed the slack from the Krupnok's dual triggers.

"Hold your fire," Talvera commanded. "Wait till he's close. Wait till we all can see him."

"No. Think he's friendly," Elsh let go of the spade grips and pointed across at another Ranger who was waving at them. "Danz is signalling."

Talvera did not cease aiming his Wex and kept it trained on the vehicle when it appeared from between the trees. It was six-wheeled, tall, with a boxy cab and what looked like an address system with six loudspeakers bolted on top of the flat roof.

"Elsh, cover me," Talvera ordered, striding out from behind the cover of the truck and holding up a hand, signalling the truck to halt. To his right, the other mercs were converging on the – now stationary – vehicle.

"Turn it off! Turn it off!" Talvera made a chopping motion across his neck.

The driver complied, killing the engine and raising his hands.

"Hands on the windshield!" Talvera threw the passenger door open and thrust his Wex inside.

"Blessed Vulcanum! What are you?" A sallow-faced man with jutting features and a lazy eye cried.

"You tell us who you are, and maybe we don't waste you," Talvera said.

"I am Maeren Tiron."

Talvera shook his head, "don't know a Tiron. What do you do?"

"Propaganda."

"Why are you here?"

"To convince the enemy that their struggle is folly, that it would be more in their interest to renounce the Imperium and the False Emperor and join our cause."

Talvera gestured to Danz, who yanked open the driver's door and pulled Tiron out roughly.

"Ah! Unhand me, you cur!" Tiron struggled plaintively before being sat down by Danz. "My father is Princeps Malas Tiron of the Legio Vulcanum—"

"Yeah, everyone's father is someone," Talvera sniffed and slung his Wex, coming around the bonnet of the truck and squatting beside Tiron. "What propaganda do you make?"

"I-I don't make it, I just broadcast it to enemy positions," Tiron gulped. "They drop leaflets every now and again too."

"And has it ever worked?"

"Uh, well, no actually."

A ripple of laughter spread through the Rangers. Talvera chuckled too. "Strip him."

"Um, that will not be necessary," Tiron stammered as hands began to tug at his robes.

Very soon Maeren Tiron was sitting there, naked apart from a pair of grey long johns, and shivering.

"Find anything?" Talvera kicked at the man's robe.

"Nothing but a book on the Legio Vulcanum, a medallion, and a wodge of dirty picts," Danz handed them over. "Seems he has quite unique tastes."

The sight of even one of the pictures, the details of which revolted Talvera, caused him to tear the rest up and stamp them into the ground. "Here," he tossed the book and medallion back at Tiron. "You be careful now."

"Am I – am I free?" Tiron rose slowly to his feet, knobbly knees trembling.

"You do your psy-ops shit then get the hell out of my AO," Talvera said.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you," Tiron snatched up his robes and hastened back to his truck.

Expecting a droning recital, Talvera was caught off-guard when an ear-splitting blast of feedback tore through the woods. Slapping his hands over his ears, Talvera gritted his teeth and looked back at Tiron's truck. Every other Ranger too had his hands over his ears.

"BROTHERS…" A deafeningly-loud, canned voice sounded from the speakers, blasting right over Talvera's head.

"You want to do that shit, do it elsewhere!" Talvera shouted, sticking his head inside the empty cab. "Where are you?"

"What, sorry?" Tiron's voice came from in the back.

"Move somewhere else. I didn't say you could mouth off in our bivouac," Talvera said angrily. "You could draw fire, get me or my men killed. Then you'd be in a real world of shit."

"Um, I'm sorry, honoured sir," Tiron, fully-clothed again, climbed through a hatch and back into the driver's seat. "I shall be on my way."

"Yeah, you be on your way, fast."

When Talvera heard the Tiron's faraway voice, it was at a much more acceptable volume.

"Brothers, you are fighting on the wrong side. Turn your guns around. This planet is not yours. We do not wish to harm your homes. Our quarrel is with the Cadian Shock Troopers. They are fanatics bred solely for war, killers without a scrap of remorse. The commissars too for they are sadistic despots with a complete and utter disregard for human life, butchers itching to murder their own men, seeing them only through the sights of a bolt pistol. The Space Marines, the greatest enemy. When have they ever lifted a finger to help you, these so-called saviours of humanity? They care nothing for the sufferings of the ordinary soldier; you. And your so-called God Emperor. What is he to you? A false deity kept alive through oppression and terror your own government, the Ecclesiarchy, the Imperial Cult, the Inquisition. All rule you through fear. Join the liberators now. Join us and be treated as individuals, not as numbers or letters. Join us and free the galaxy from the bloated pox-ridden carcass that is the Imperium of Man…"

* * *

 **Firebase Rakkassan, 07:07**

The big drums of propaganda continued to do a head trip on the occupants of Rakka, I included. Half-kneeling, half-lying in a narrow slit trench, the brim of my cover resting on the lip, I listened to the same lines being recited over and over again from the unseen speakers. Sleeping in such an awkward position had kept the nightmares from pouring through the gaps in my mental perimeter. It was a small, albeit uncomfortable price to pay for a mostly undisturbed night. The sole exception was a rifleman firing a shot into the distant treeline the moment the canned voice had come on. Somewhere down the line, Draino barked at the shooter to cease fire, for he was out of range. The sharp crack, sparking a brief moment of madness inside, made me jump up, clutching my M-36 in one hand and entrenching tool in the other. Wide-eyed and alert, I climbed up onto the parapet, out of cover, and stood there, unsure of where I was or what I was supposed to be doing.

"That you up there, Larn?" Kat growled, reaching up to tug at my trouserleg. "Get down."

Flopping back down like an automaton, I let my head fall forwards until it hit the earth wall with a soft _thunk,_ and I was asleep again.

"Kat, I've lost the platoon," I murmured when someone tripped over me.

"What? Sorry, Sarn't, didn't see ya down there," a new voice said apologetically. "You been outside all night?" he asked, moving away without waiting for an answer.

 _CQMS,_ I remembered my new appointment with frustration, then the reason why. I needed to find Kat.

Draino, Kat, and the other section leader were inside the sandbag tower. Staff Sergeant Perandis was there with them. "Sarn't Larn, I think you have somewhere you need to be."

"Yeah, Staff Sarn't," I nodded quickly. "Kat, I've been—"

"The section leaders have been made aware of Ten Platoon's change in hands, Sarn't," Perandis waved a hand at me to leave. "This is not your home anymore. On your way now."

Kat shrugged at me and shook his head, _what can you do?_

Casting my eyes to the ground, I backed out of the sandbag tower, losing the platoon without ever having seen action dug into me deeply. Smarting with shame I trudged, with little haste, over to the east side of Rakka, where CQMS' small bunker was located just behind 12 Platoon's sector. Along the way I heard the distant whine of jet turbine engines. _Probably Waldo returning to pick up the colonel; good riddance I say._

"Sir, Crow Five-Seven's incoming!" Len Wharton sat upright in his chair when he recognised WO2 Waldo's voice in his ears. "They're bringing in a load of ammo too."

"Colonel!" Captain Meller called to Lieutenant Colonel Lapraik. "One slick inbound for you. What's the ETA, Wharton?"

"Two – two minutes," Wharton held up two fingers.

"Well, Captain I could say it was a pleasure…" The colonel smiled icily, not quite reaching her eyes. "But to lie to a fellow officer would amount to conduct unbecoming." Nevertheless she shook Meller's hand.

"I don't know, Colonel. Your presence has seen an acute increase in morale," Meller smiled in return.

"For some. Good day, Captain. Oh, and smarten yourself up. There's a good chap." With that Lapraik strode out of the bunker, Captain Ruth and their signaller in tow.

"Phew," Meller automatically loosened the collar of his combats now that the stiff officer had departed. "There's a relief."

His slick wobbling ungainly from the netting of supply crates dangling underneath, Hugh Waldo banked gently, careful not to get the load into an uncontrollable swing. If that happened he would be all over the sky, and maybe even be forced to drop his cargo. "Cannon-Three, this is Crow Five-Seven. We are on final approach to your callsign's location, ETA two minutes. Over."

"Cannon-Three, understood. Good to hear your voice again, Crow."

A tiny flash to starboard caught Waldo's eye. "Muzzle flash to your north, Cannon-Three," he said right before green tracers began to zip past his cockpit. _Dammit, they've seen my cargo_. _I'll need to drop it if I have any hope of avoiding that ground fire._

Hauling his control yoke to port, Waldo tried banking further to avoid the gunfire, it having found the range immediately and was now spattering against the fuselage and wings. "Cannon-Three, this is Crow Five-Seven, we're taking heavy automatic weapon fire from a ground battery to your north."

"Roger that Five-Seven."

 _This thing's handling like a brick,_ Waldo grimaced behind his mask, rolling his ship this way and that to try and shake off the barrage. Switching to crew comms, Waldo spoke to Hensen, who was manning the starboard bolter. "Hensen, can't you do something about that gun?"

"I can't see where the fire's coming from," Hensen had stuck his head out of the open door to try and pinpoint the invisible gun's position. "It's somewhere in those trees beyond the dead zone."

Waldo felt a judder then a powerful vibration through his yoke. "We've been hit. We've been hit." His pedals too felt suddenly light.

"Cannon-Three. Can you make it into land, Crow?"

"Negative, can't manoeuvre. We've dropping your supplies. Russ, drop the net!"

"Got it, Skipper," Russ Reath shouted. "We're clear."

"Pulling out. Good luck down there, Cannon-Three." Waldo then added, "Sorry we couldn't reach you today. We'll try again tomorrow."

"…No," Colonel Lapraik watched in dismay as the banking slick was clipped by tracers. Whichever way the pilot turned, the gun followed, always finding its mark and refusing to have its aim disrupted. "Land here, damn you," she muttered. The choir beacon which the lord castellan had placed so much hope on was on the ground at her feet ready to be delivered to Kasr Kraf. The pilot only need brave the lone gun that was firing at him and drop his supplies, then land and pick her up.

"Colonel, he's turning back," Captain Ruth pointed at the slick as the netting holding the supply crates was released, dropping well outside the perimeter.

"Oh, you coward," Lapraik, incensed, whirled about and made for the CP, wishing fury on the pilot for his apparent cowardice.

"Bring him back! Bring him back now!" she raged, bursting in on Captain Meller.

"The pilot was taking accurate and continuous fire, Colonel. He had no choice but to pull out," Meller, glancing up from the map, said flatly.

"You!" Lapraik jabbed a finger at the private wearing a headset. "Give me that."

"He won't come back, Colonel," Meller shrugged. "He wasn't going to risk his ship."

Plucking the Rascal headset from the signaller, Lapraik took off her beret and replaced it with the thick earpieces. "Pilot, this is Lieutenant Colonel Lapraik, Imperial Intelligence Corps. I order you to turn your Valkyrie around and land at my location at once."

"Crow Five-Seven. Negative, negative, Niner. My ship took damage from a heavy automatic weapon. Unsure of the extent at this time. Any attempt to land would have made us an even better target. Once we've returned to base, assessed the damage, and performed the necessary repairs, we will return to your location on a different vector. Over."

"It was one gun, only one!" Lapraik struggled to refrain from sounding irate. "I am on an important mission. I am holding you responsible now, do you understand?"

"Five-Seven. Roger that, Niner."

"Turn back!"

"Negative. Negative. Unable to comply with your orders at this time. Over."

"I shall see that your commanding officer disciplines you harshly."

No reply came. _The pilot had cut the link!_

"He…" Lapraik was about to turn her wrath upon the occupants of the CP but restrained herself. Pulling the headset off, she passed it back to the signaller and carefully seated her beret upon her head. "Captain Meller. You will provide me with motor transport."

Meller, still calm as ever, had lit up and was shaking the flaming match out. "What's so important then, huh, Colonel? This thing you're carrying. What's so special about it? Why does the lord castellan need it so badly?"

"That is classified, Captain. It is not for an officer of infantry to know about."

"Colonel, if it would help our mission…" Captain Ruth spoke up.

"We would be disobeying orders, Captain, the lord castellan's orders that I received from his mouth in person."

"It's a choir beacon," Ruth rushed over his words. "We need it for our Astros to break through the psychic storms around—"

"Captain!" Lapraik, enraged, bore down on him.

"Please, Colonel. I'm only an intelligence officer. I don't want to be here when the enemy isolates this firebase, which looks like it'll be very soon," Ruth cringed. "I'm sorry. Write me up for it."

"I shall," Lapraik said grimly.

"Take my Wolf," Meller said. "Get yourself back down Highway One, fast. Just be aware of the refugees. You might find it slow going."

"My gratitude, Captain," Lapraik raised an eyebrow in surprise.

Meller met her eyes briefly then returned his attention to his maps. _Long as it gets you out of my hair, sister._

Buried underneath layers of sandbags, corrugated iron, and earth shored up by wooden planks, CQMS dwelt, and now so did his apprentice. Though I still had my three stripes I could not help but feel that I was standing in a dead-end corridor, one without any windows. What niggled me were the copious quantities of unusual weaponry CQMS had stashed away. A pair of fuel tanks connected to a Type-13X flamethrower in one corner. A Scoba 83-millimetre recoilless rifle balanced against a shelf stacked with rectangular blocks of Composition C, all fresh with the detonator wire buried within them, taken their foil-lined boxes. All this should surely have been available in number to the three platoons, but it was all still in CQMS's hands, and the man did not appear to be willing to start handing them out at any time.

"Colour Sarn't, all this stuff 'ere should be with the platoons," I said as we were going through stocks of black boot-polish.

"What stuff? I don't see any stuff," CQMS said. "Keep counting."

"That bloody flamethrower back there, or those blocks of RDX. They're all just sittin' there."

CQMS put down his tablet and stylus on his knee and patiently regarded me. "Sergeant, would you care to demonstrate the correct operating procedure for the Type-13X?"

"Wha – I don't know how, Colour Sarn't."

"Or the correct implementation of Composition C?"

"I don't know, Colour Sarn't." I was starting to feel like a fool.

"Precisely. You've answered your own question there, Sergeant. You don't know. I would certainly struggle to find a man with the qualifications enough to operate – safely – the Type-13X or Composition C without burning fatally or blowing himself or his colleagues up."

"Yes, Colour Sarn't," I replied mechanically.

"Now, what count do you have?" CQMS returned to counting the number of boot polish tins we had like I had never asked the question.

"Eigh—" I paused. Gazing off into space, I heard the telltale pop of mortars. There weren't ours. "Incoming mail, Colour Sarn't," I said.

"Ignore it. Mortars cannot penetrate bunker roofs. Now what count do you have?"

 _Kill me dead,_ I gave CQMS the tally of boot polishing tins as mortars began to explode outside. This was it. Zeke was getting ready for the assault; I knew it. But now I was stripped of my authority and stuck inside a bunker with an infernally boring task. With little else to do, I laboured through the stacks of shaving cream, bootlaces, beret flashes, gas masks, sewing kits, every tiny piece of blasted kit a grunt would ever own whilst wishing thoroughly I was back in the trenches with the platoon.


	22. Chapter 21

**Firebase Rakkassan, 19:30**

Lysell Talvera could not imagine how anyone would be dissuaded from their cause by the repetitive propaganda reels Maeren Tiron recited over and over again from the comfort of his truck. Talvera hoped and hoped the imperials would react aggressively and shower the general area north of their firebase with mortars. But nothing stirred in the enemy's camp. Then again, maybe they were wise to hold their fire.

At half past two, Talvera decided that he'd had enough of the droning voice. Stealing close to the parked truck and, careful to not stray around the front where the booming speakers were, Talvera, Elsh, Danz, Kemmet, and Sinh surrounded the rear doors before Talvera threw them open, exposing Tiron.

"Can I help you?" Poised above a large voxcaster, Tiron paused mid-sentence and stared wide-eyed at the Rangers.

"I think you've been doing that long enough, my friend," Talvera stepped back, allowing Danz and Kemmet to spring forwards and yank Tiron from his seat. Despite the two strong men effortlessly hauling him from his seat, Tiron still made to struggle, even after Elsh and Sinh took hold of an arm and a leg respectively; leaving the man swaying off the ground.

"Remind me who your father is again?" Talvera cupped one ear.

Before Tiron could form a choked reply, Elsh slapped him. "Heard enough of your voice now, haven't we all?"

"So what shall we do with this beauty then?" Kemmet asked, jabbing two fingers into Tiron's screwed-up eyes, producing a squawk of fright.

"Give him to the cultists?" Danz grabbed Tiron's jaw and worked it up and down, much to his amusement. "Rah-rah-rah-rah."

"Ahh, throw him in the river. If he comes back, let his tyres down," Talvera said.

Tiron's protests quickly faded away, leaving Talvera with the, now-silent, propaganda truck. _I may have a use for you still_. He smiled and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

Talvera had known many well-regarded field commanders in the past to have particular a means of making themselves, and their reputation known to the enemy. And though this may have seemed counter-productive, Talvera wanted the enemy to know who he was and who they would be fighting. His thing was to play music before a battle, very loudly. Talvera found it to have a calming effect, settling nervous stomachs before the engagement and soothing fraught nerves. Let the enemy listen to the swooning songs too, and hope it had a similar effect on them. For that purpose Talvera transported around with the battalion an ancient record player, one that only accepted very thin disk-like records that were all black and shiny. Fetching it from the main body of vehicles, leaguered further back from the vanguard, Talvera soon had it hooked up to the voxcaster. Simply put, it was sitting in front of the lozenge-shaped mouthpiece which would hopefully pick up the sound and play it through the speakers. _Chryso, perfect._ Talvera smiled with satisfaction as Hannes Chryso's melancholic voice rang from the speakers. _Let that be my propaganda._

* * *

The faint voice had stopped, Mik Meller realised. Pausing in his fretful pacing he listened out. Whether or not the speaker had finally chosen to pack up, or was pausing to catch his breath, Meller never found out as Wharton suddenly stirred.

"Sir!" he cried, lifting his headset off and offering it to Meller. "Sir, it's battalion HQ."

"Three Alpha." Meller momentarily forgot about the propaganda.

"Niner. Sitrep, Three Alpha."

"Three Alpha. Rakka all secure. We're expecting Zeke to show his teeth very soon, within the next twenty-four hours. Our sunray is still absent. Can you confirm he is preparing to return to my callsign's location? Over."

"Niner. Wait one, Three Alpha, your sunray has been waylaid and is unable to make it to your callsign's location at this time. Over."

Meller, confused, pressed the earpiece tighter over his right ear. "Three Alpha. What is my sunray's status? Why is he still delayed? Over." _What could be taking_ _the OC so long?_ Meller thought agitatedly. He would have liked to have been able to step down from acting OC, returning to the comfy job of platoon commander and only having to worry about forty men, instead of 150. Now it looked like Major Sebben, the sergeant major, and the company commissar would be absent when Zeke attacked. And once the firebase was locked down by the enemy it would be quite impossible for relief and resupply. The load dropped by the slick was still lying out in the kill zone. To retrieve it at night would only lead to a trip-flare being set off by feet blundering in the dark, attracting Zeke's attention.

"Niner. Three Alpha: your orders are to hold your ground. Defend Rakka at all costs. Out."

"Sir, we can't—" Meller heard an ominous click on the other end. The line was dead.

"We ain't gettin' the OC back here tomorrow are we, sir?" Wharton said with a look of nervous apprehension.

Meller passed the vox headset back to him. "No, Corporal. Doesn't matter though, we have food and full magazines."

"Yeah, and much more than that," Staff Sergeant Perandis clattered into the CP.

"Oh yeah, where've you been, Staffy?" Meller eyed Perandis' muddy hands with curiosity.

"Took a stroll out past the wire and hauled that ammo back inside the perimeter," Perandis grinned, wiping his hands on his trousers. "We got it all."

"Oh, whack-ho, Staff Sarn't." The worry on Wharton's face lifted slightly.

"Okay, show me what we've got." Meller looked pleased.

The eight crates, all identical in the dark, were arranged outside CQMS's dugout, there appearing to be no more room inside to store them. The Quartermaster was already there appropriating the supplies.

"Mortar shells." Perandis pried open the lock on the first crate with a knife. "Should be good for the Stump-Throwers." Picking up one of the three black cylinders, Perandis popped the cover off one end and slid the shell out into his hand. "Hang about…" he weighed the shell up in his hand.

"Number ten," Kat, beside him, grunted.

"2-inch shells." Meller said flatly.

"No good. We need 82-mil," Perandis muttered something dark under his breath.

"Shit creek," Kat muttered, opening another crate to find more of the useless shells. Six of the crates – eighteen shells in total – were set aside, with nobody knowing what to do with them. The last two contained .338-calibre rifle ammunition in belts of 250. Only none of Cannon Company's weapons fed from .338 belts, making them unusable too, unless each individual round was removed from the fabric links and loaded into magazines for IM Rifles and Rekyl Guns.

"Oi, is that music?" Kat glanced up in the direction of the kill zone, hearing what he thought were words sung.

"Sounds like Zeke's changed his tack," Perandis noted dryly.

"Maybe. Get this ammunition distributed, Sarn't," Meller said. "Leave the shells. I might have an idea how we can use them later…"

* * *

"A connoisseur of the arts," Cyrano Semirechye remarked, drumming his fingers on the rough wall of sandbags and humming along with the music. Standing stag on the firestep, Cyrano leant on his M-36 which he had resting on parapet pointing out into the killing zone. Beside Cyrano, his cheek tucked into the receiver of a Rekyl Gun, was Aimo Garst. Both were silently watching for signs of Zeke tentatively poking his head up for a look at them in the dusk light.

"Conno-what-now?" Aimo snorted. "Sounds like lifer words to me."

"A patron of the arts, you uncultured swine," Cyrano growled. "One whose life is not devoted to constant war, as everyone on this planet appears to be."

"Still sounds like a lifer. Does a big fur hat make you cultured?"

"Lifer?" Cyrano, mildly exasperated, squinted at Aimo. "I struggle to make a connection…"

"Someone that flouts authority over skuzzy grunts like us, usually officers or commissars – career types," Aimo glanced at him over his Rekyl. "'Cause you lost your pips, you're still human; just. Take my advice, horse-botherer; don't let the Guard sucker you into a career. You'll only end up getting buggered over by lifers or wasted to protect their worthless carcasses."

"Hmph. The aspects of human culture are lost on you Nerians. Your race is truly one of the sword and the rifle. As unsophisticated as a masonry hammer," Cyrano laughed quietly when he heard Aimo's low chuckle. "Oh and my hat provides more than just flair," Cyrano reached down for his white fur cover, grey with dirt, and showed it to Aimo. "Ballistic protection woven inside the material."

"Pukka," Aimo grinned, stroking the matted fur. "Solid, before you ask what it means."

"I would say sensitivity can make a man cultured," Cyrano said, placing his cover by his feet, out of harm's way. "Do not believe that the hand of a brute is the solution to all issues, in the field or out. How do you think a soldier re-orientates himself with civilian life? Have you been home before?"

"Home, me? Not once yet. Lookin' forwards to it once this little bother is over."

"Any plans?"

"Err, spot o' business with the family, not much else."

"Will you still be acting like a soldier?"

"Nah, no. Not in front of the little one, definitely."

"There it is, my friend. You can be the soldier here and the parent at home. You need only remember."

"Is that what it means to be cultured?"

"…No."

"You're pulling me leg!"

"Pulling legs…?"

"Now who's uncultured?" Aimo snorted.

"An ignorance of peasant slang does not make me uncultured," Cyrano waggled a finger in emphasis.

"That beard says otherwise," Aimo smiled cheerfully.

"Ah, now you go too far."

"Naw, I crossed that line long ago when I called you a horse-botherer."

"Oh," Cyrano bristled. "There is no bond deeper than between a man and his steed, except perhaps his spouse."

"Oh, you're hitched, aren't you?"

"My formidable other half awaits me on Haven."

"Hey, mine too," Aimo punched Cyrano in the shoulder playfully. "Let's introduce them to one another."

"I would sooner castrate myself with a cheese knife than allow my wife near yours."

The quick silence that fell was replaced with warm laughter from both men.

 _That's the spirit,_ Cyrano beamed.

"Chryso!" A young voice gasped from the nearby bunker. "Knew it."

"Ask him, he's got culture," Aimo slapped his thigh in amusement.

Jacklyn Molke crawled from the bunker to Aimo and Cyrano's left. His cover, weapon and flak jacket were conspicuously absent.

"Sounds like a load of old twoddle to me." Another private wearing a prominent handlebar moustache followed Molke out into the cool air, picking him up from the trench floor. "Come on stop crawlin' around like a whore wanting to be ploughed." Careth Belisha, lance jack of Aimo's section, propelled Molke forwards by the shoulders. Unlike the seventeen-year-old, Belisha wore ballistic cover and had his bootneck flak vest zipped up fully. An expensive-looking Accatran pump-action shotgun with a horizontal-billed muzzle brake was in his hands, and a leather bandolier full of green 10-gauge shells was slung across his chest.

"He's playing Chryso," Molke crowed.

"Ssh, noise discipline, Private!" Aimo hissed.

"How do you know that?" Cyrano beckoned Molke forwards. "Come, come. Let us discuss this topic. But first let us abscond from these unsophisticated louts."

Throwing an arm around the smaller man, Cyrano wandered off with him, leaving Aimo to watch the sector by himself.

"Elisha, up on stag!" Aimo ordered. "Your turn."

"Belisha, Corp!" Belisha said indignantly.

"Nah, you're name's Elisha. Blame your parents. They can't have loved you all that much, else why would they have such a cuntish name?"

"Aw, you're a piece, Corp," Belisha propped his Accatran upright beside a crate of .338 calibre ammunition and folded his arms, resting them on the sandbags.

"I'd be careful 'bout the sarn't. We're on his hunting ground, and he's feeding on grunt blood tonight," Aimo said half-seriously. "Course if the Sarn't don't jump on your programme, Zeke will," he added, this time dispensing with the humour.

"Plenty o' sarn'ts have attempted that manoeuvre. I ain't theirs to use and lose. I'm an independent, an associate of eat-lead and payback, dealing in wasted Zeke parts."

"You got big plans then when Zeke hits us then?"

"Yep. All I need is my Zeke-sweeper and The Almighty's blessing," Belisha smirked. "I _am_ the Imperial Guard."

* * *

As the company quartermaster sergeant's apprentice I was exempt from platoon duties, not that it would stop me from walking lines like I would have done had 10 Platoon still been mine. Pretending I still had authority was enough, though it was for another reason that I chose to be out at such a late hour, and that was CQMS's stubborn hoarding. Unable to fathom why CQMS would keep so many useful toys in his nest – besides the few vague reasons he had given me – I took it upon myself to liberate as many blocks of Composition-C from stores as I could, and stuff them in between perimeter sandbags all around the perimeter for others' later use. CQMS was a heavy sleeper, so heavy that he could sleep through mortars crashing on his roof, with nary a stir. With a desire to get back at the stuffy quartermaster, and express my distaste with my new job, I had swiped, along with the Comp-C, white phosphorus grenades, and a bandolier of 40 mm ammunition for a Castra 'Whupper' I had slung across my back.

Prowling along the trench on the eastern flank, 12 Platoon's sector, I passed lolling sentries, kicking each one that looked like he had fallen into a doze. I could tell the new fishes apart from those with TI easily. I tried to scare the living shit out of them. Give them the right type of fear to keep them alive. The wrong type could easily kill them. New Fishes did not see with the hard eyes of grunts. The dead were the boys that could not get wired to the Guard programme, paying the price for their ineptitude. The Imperial Guard took little wetnoses into the replacement pipeline and shit them out as grown-ups. Grow up now, grow up fast, grow up overnight; or don't grow up at all. Everything before Cadia taught me that.

The New Fish I had in my sights was so deeply engrossed in his own coming-of-age story he did not hear me step inside the bunker. It was the young lad, Molke, the one who bored me with tall, larger-than-life stories of his worthless existence. Bareheaded, devoid of flak jacket, and without weapon in sight, Molke sat on a wooden ammunition crate, one arm working up and down furiously. Straightening up in disgust, I checked in the corners of the darkened bunker for any other skuzzy privates knocking off on stag and found the horny wetnose was alone. Molke groaned, abusing Imperial Guard property, polishing his bayonet, just a little midnight organ practice to cut the edge off the cold. I heard the sound of one hand clapping.

"New Fish," I shoved Molke off the crate. Startled at the interruption, Molke's mind returned to Rakka abruptly and he hastily fumbled with his pants; red-faced and red-handed.

"Sarn't! What did you just call me?" Molke gaped, hitching his trousers up.

"Don't even speak, New Fish," I jabbed a finger at his jacket. "Don't even address me by me rank. You are the biggest shagging waste of Guard resources in the galaxy. I'm gonna give it to ye with both barrels now. Don't even play pocket shuffle when ye s'posed to be pulling bunker guard duty in my area."

"But this isn't your…" Molke began. I shoved him again. This time he was prepared and barely stumbled back one pace before regaining his balance.

"You're gonna sharpen up yer act and turn out smart, iggery, else her 'ealth record's gonna turn into a sob story. In the Guard nice little fellas don't finish at all and monsters live forever; blood for blood. Cadia and the Imperial Guard will be the education you never got in school. You 'aven't been born yet, New Fish. You're job's to stand around and stop the round that might hit somebody important, like a scumbag lifer officer. Before the sun comes up, New Fish, you could be just one more tagged and bagged pile of nonviewable remains. If yer lucky, you'll only get killed."

"I was on Nemesis Tessera," Molke said quietly, trying to put on a brave face.

"Nah, ye weren't," I shook my head slowly. "I was. An' I was as happy as a pig in a shit because killing was our business there and business was good. Here I decree that business shall prosper once more. The Emperor giveth and the Castra taketh away. Welcome to the world of zero slack, boy."

"You should look at yourself," Molke bristled. He was taller than me by several inches. "Somewhere inside you, you're just a scared little lad…"

Ignoring him, I strolled outside down the muddy catwalk of rope-handed ammunition crates. Picking up a short black cardboard cylinder from the firing parapet, I tore off black adhesive tape wrapped around the cylinder until it broke open. An olive grey egg dropped into my hand, hard, heavy, and cold. As a safety measure, tape had been wrapped around the spoon. I tore that off too.

"A scared little lad, that's your job, New Fish, yer just another wetnose and too bone-headed to do anything but draw fire. Yer nothin' to me."

"I know you lost friends. Good people. People better than me—" Molke nervously eyed the grenade as I held the spoon down and worked the tight pin from its little hole. When it was free I put the pin into my pocket.

"Don't even talk about that fuckin' place!" I spat, punching Molke in the chest with the frag. "Take it, New Fish, or I'm gonna make you get down on yer knees and suck my Whupper off!"

Awkward, stiff, and scared, Molke touched the grenade with his fingertips to see if it was hot. His trembling fingers got a grip on the spoon. I allowed him to breathe his bad breath into my face until I was sure he had control of the spoon, then I let go.

Molke held the grenade out at arm's length, as though it would help if it went off. He couldn't take his eyes off of it.

Wiping my hands, I said, "If you need buckshee kit, don't come over to my roost. CQMS sells the good stuff on the black market. He's not gonna issue you with any gear, but he might sell ye some. What yer gonna do is wait for some dumb grunt to get hit by incoming mail. Then ye diddly-bop on the double over to Cain Med. Outside of Cain Med will be a load o' gear Ral Bleak will 'ave stripped off the dying grunt. While the body-snatchers cut the grunt up, you swipe his gear."

"Then – more coming – the first thing you need do is always tap a fresh magazine on yer cover in case it's been inside yer pouches long enough to freeze up due to spring fatigue. Second, don't think you can get away with pissing in my bunker, my favourite bunker. Last thing: don't ever put a plaster over a sucking chest wound!"

Molke nodded and tried to pull some air down and cough up words at the same time. "The pin…" Molke swallowed. "Do you want to get me killed?"

Checking the luminous numerals of my wrist-mounted chrono – buckshee kit with everything else I owned – I shrugged. "Someone's gotta get killed. Might as well be you. This training weren't s'posed to keep you from getting killed. I'm training you so you don't get _me_ killed. Now, I'm gonna inspect this position again in an hour, scumbag. In that time yer not gonna fall asleep. On my order you'll return my personal hand grenade in a serviceable condition. You won't allow it to blow itself up and hurt itself. Yer not _even_ gonna mess up my favourite bunker with the 'orrible remains of yer disgusting fat body."

Molke swallowed. "Yes, Sarn't," he said, terrified.

"When Zeke comes at killing hour – zero three-hundred – pop frags all over the area. Once you've found yer mis-placed Kantrael don't fire it. The muzzle flash will give away yer position. When yer on stag you frag first and forget about asking questions. Be wired. Be ready to fight at a moment's notice."

Molke nodded, his eyes straying to the floor. Without warning I got a firm grip on Molke's Adam's apple and thrust him hard into the bunker wall. Most of the air was knocked out of him. I choked out what was left.

"Yer fightin' for yer life!" I got right up into Molke's face. "Yer losing. It's not fair."

His face red, Molke tried to speak. His eyes were bulging out. He couldn't breathe. Crazily, desperately, Molke shoved me back, making his free hand into a fist and hitting me in the face. His eyes were turning red now; he saw himself in my face as though in a mirror. Again he hit me, harder. We were relating, communicating in the universal language; violence. Now Molke was glaring at me with pure uncut hatred in his puffy eyes.

"I'll kill you," he said, and cocked his arm, threatening me with the frag. "I'll kill you." I believed him then because, finally, Molke was becoming a very dangerous person.

I could not keep the smile off my face, trying to make it look like contempt instead. "Carry on, Private," I said, and let him go, departing the dugout, but not before tossing the pull ring from the hand grenade back inside at Molke. Molke managed to catch it cleanly.

"Don't play with your organ any more tonight, Private."

Molke nodded, suddenly glum and clueless; unused to the strangely addictive anger that had briefly made him a man then.

"Carry on _after_ I'm gone," I said, waggling a finger when Molke made to reinsert the pin. At my order he stood still and waited; a human monument to an ignorance as hard as Greenskins.

Molke was only half-way through his story though. Zeke would make him a man in the very-near future. Either that or they would waste him without a second thought.

* * *

"Hoi, scumbag!" I hissed when I recognised Aimo Garst's silhouette leaning into a Rekyl. "Got a present for ya!"

"Cor, you don't 'alf look rough, mate. What you been up to?"

"Tryin' to make a man outta Molke," I shoved a block of Comp-C inbetween a gap in the sandbags.

"How d'you figure you'd do that then?" Aimo wiggled the thick block out and examined it.

"Scare the living shit out of him. Make him angry."

"Oh, did it work?"

"Mmm, I'm bringing him round. It'll take a little time."

"You been half-inching stuff from CQMS then?" Aimo dug a fingernail underneath the corner of the block and began to pull back the silver foil that covered the bottom.

"Yeah. That's sticky stuff on the back, so you can slap it on walls." I reached for the block and bent it in the middle. "Mouldable too. Can't be set off by gunfire unless it's tracer. Only by this," I held up a clacker similar to the type used for detonating Walloons. "See."

"It's not connected is it?" Aimo grinned nervously, reaching for the clacker and squeezing it.

"Nah. Hook this up to that det cord. The wire you see jammed in the block. And boom! Universal problem solver."

" _Hrgh_. Got any more o' that stuff?"

"I got bags o' this, mate. I'm doling 'em out to the platoons 'cause CQMS ain't playin' nice." Obviously that was not the real reason I was stealing explosives. But Aimo wasn't to know that yet.

"I wouldn't trust any o' that lot with Comp-C."

"Nah, it's precision stuff," I said, working a second block into a tight gap by Aimo's left knee.

"Molke did that to you?" Aimo, on about my face again, peered curiously at me. "You let him stamp on your face or something?"

"That bad is it?"

"It's worse than that. Get yer arse over to Cain Med. See Ral."

"Already been," I replied, rubbing my aching chest where the dressing was stuck. "Just fell over some concertina wire on the way back in."

"What were you doing out beyond the wire?"

"Having a dekko. Rinek was with me."

"Oh, he turned up, did he?"

"Sniper wasted him."

"Tough shit. You must've got into a bit o' hand-to-hand with that sniper. Did you get him in the end?"

"Yes. No. Complicated." With a drying throat, I realised where the conversation was going. I was feeling a bit flustered now.

"Did you get a confirmed? Yes or no?"

"Nah. Zero-zero. Negative sitrep," I said, looking elsewhere and certain Aimo would see through my lie if I looked him in the eye.

"For a sarn't, you're a shit liar."

"Oi! It's the officers who are the liars. This sarn't don't lie," I said increasingly defensively. "My shit is wired tight. I'll tell you, but only 'cause you were on Nemtess. You'd understand. That stickie's out there."

"She come in force?" Aimo grunted with somewhat less surprise than I had expected of him.

"Nah, just her."

"'Cause I thought the whole reason we were lifted off Nemtess was 'cause the stickie higher-highers were looking to team up with us lot and take Zeke down. Then we go back to wastin' one another once Zeke's zipped. Now you say it's just her? She ain't brought the big guns to Cadia?"

"No big guns. Just her." My throat was bone dry. "Fuck if I know. I was this close to being hung out to dry for a real estate deal."

"Reckon she holds you in high regard. You owe 'er a lot."

"Not me. I'm just a skuzzy grunt, livin' on someone else's time." I pulled out my canteen from its carrier and chugged down gulpfuls of arse-water. "I'm no collaborator. Negative on the 104."

"She give you those lumps?"

"Who else?"

"Hope you gave her some back. Teach her for being a stickie."

"Yep, course."

"That all you gave her?"

Punching Aimo in the arm I slunk away to plant more Comp C around the perimeter, grumbling inwardly.

* * *

Alone – Belisha having snuck back inside the warmer bunker – Aimo picked up a pair of field glasses and scanned the shell-scarred waste. Then, distracting him, a hard _thump_ of an explosion sounded somewhere in the distance on his right. _Just a shell_.

Another shell _boomed_ in. Then another.

 _Incoming._

"INCOMING! INCOMING!" Young voices echoed the word.

"Aw shit," Aimo heard the wails. Incoming meant jagged steel screeching through the air, sizzling hot and invisible, hissing and smoking and searching for your face. _Zeke's going to use this to cut lanes through our wire,_ he realised. _This is_ _perfect cover for their sappers_.

Snatching one last look into the darkened kill zone, Aimo hoisted his Rekyl from the parapet by its carry handle and doubled inside the nearest bunker. Inside scores of snuffies in his section and the rest of 12 Platoon were crammed. In contrast to the stench of sweat, piss, wet canvas, vomit, and mildewed combats it was quite impossible to see the hand in front of the face.

 _Boom._ A 175 mil high-velocity demolition ball dug a new hole in the ground outside. A direct hit on a bunker roof would collapse it, burying the occupants alive. Aimo knew that the even the duds dove four feet into the earth, so hunkering down as much as possible would do no good. Many of the younger snuffies were whispering bunker-prayers as the earth around and above trembled, dumping fine showers on each man's head. _Save it for the chaplain's services. It won't do you any good down here._

For an hour outside a hard rain of enemy shells fell earthwards, 147 pounds each, almost always heavier than the men firing them from their pieces many, many klicks to the north, across the Luten on Cadia Primus. First a long, long whistle, then the rush of air from a falling freight car, then _boom_ ; the ground shivered from the impact. Hot, mean shrapnel sung its tuneless little song. Most of them would bang in and miss, moving the earth around a little.

Aimo did not listen to the incoming for it became repetitive more or less instantly. He did not listen because listening was pointless. The shell that would get him would make no noise. It would hit him and he would be gone. _Goodbye, my love. You will see me lying on my back in a zinc casket and draped in the flag of the Imperium. Give my love to the daughter I will never see._

"Fuck this incoming!" someone said loudly, breaking the trance that had hold of so many.

"Number ten."

"My granddad got shelled worse than this on Malosoir. He had week-long barrages keeping him underground. Great big brass bloody balls he had. Zeke's got nothing on him!"

Aimo listened as someone tried to lead off into a song. With only a few voices joining in, it quickly filtered out. He wondered whether Larn had found cover quickly enough. His description of the young one, Molke, and trying to make a man out of him unnerved Aimo. This was not the same pale, sickly, scared lad that had fallen into his trench on Nemtess. Something had changed with him, something significant. If he was a boy on Nemtess, he was not now on Cadia.

* * *

 _0200,_ the numerals on my chrono read. The barrage, lifting finally, had lasted for exactly one hour and forty minutes. Zeke's odd punctuality intrigued me. I had assumed he was not one for sticking to strict timetables, as the Imperial Guard was fond of, rather adopting a more random pattern to confuse the enemy.

 _One hour to kill._ 0300 was the prime time for a ground attack and our peak killing hour. The one-hundred minute barrage was meant to keep us awake and alert for imminent assault. Once that passed we would relax and return to our bunks. Then Zeke would send in assault troops.

Standing alone on the north-east corner of Rakka, a bunker to my immediate right, I awaited the infiltrators, Castra in hand, full bandolier slung across my chest. If Zeke would not wait for the killing hour, I would not either.

 _Where are you, you bastards?_ I squinted hard at the irregular shapes of the razorwire gardens and concertina coils. Having been hiding inside a bunker during the barrage, my night vision had gone. Now I struggled to readjust. Small droplets of rain began their pitter-patter on my shoulders and cover, dripping off the scrim net I had fastened over the grey sacking to disguise the profile.

Fifty yards down the trench, Aimo stirred. Tucking the stock of his Rekyl into his cheek he focused on a featureless point in the dark and willed his eyes to make some sense of the night.

 _Contact_ , his mind clicked on seeing low, crawling shapes in the mud. From the rear came a _pop_ and a _hiss_ as the half-hourly flare was put up. Rakka and the surrounding landscape were lit up by blinding magnesium light as the illumination, reaching its zenith, hung there for a moment before slowly falling back towards the ground by parachute. With the sky bright as day, the movement beyond the wire stopped. Aimo saw the naked, mud-blackened bodies underneath the rolls of wire lie still. In their hands were wire cutters, satchel charges, chemical grenades and long, thin metal tubes packed with explosives.

"ATTACK!" Without waiting for reinforcements Aimo squeezed the slack from the Rekyl's trigger and opened up on the sappers. The crackle of the flare burning overhead was drowned out by the Rekyl's slow, laboured _thump_. Directing the weapon's fire in a gentle arc, Aimo cut red lines of bullets through the paths the sappers were making.

From away down the line voices near and far were shouting, "STAND TO!"

"CONTACT!"

"ZEKE ON THE WIRE!"

Scattered small arms fire picked up all along the perimeter. From the rear, mortar tubes begin to _thump_ , dropping 82-millimetre high explosive shells on Zeke's bare heads. Trembling, excited hands banged on Walloon detonators, once, twice then _boom,_ the explosions raining deadly showers of steel balls. From bunker slits and atop sandbagged perches, .50-cal stubbers thudded. Blips of red light blinked across the fields of fire and interlaced into wavering hypnotic patterns.

Conscious of riflemen appearing on both sides, Aimo grabbed one man by the shoulder and bellowed in his ear, "you, on that weapon now!" Another he thrust to the first man's side as he took over the Rekyl, "you, feed him!"

Doubling along the perimeter, Aimo checked the interior of bunkers and slit trenches for any slackers or sleepyheads, hauling anyone out bodily with harsh, undiscriminating hands and shoving them in the direction of the firing line. The rain was beating down harder now. Grunts were all around him, slipping and sliding through the soft mud, making their way towards where the firing was, zipping up flak jackets, slamming ceramite covers onto their heads. Those with M-36s thumbed selectors to full automatic spray-and-pray. Sword bayonets were fitted to semi-automatic IM LARs, set to receive. 40-millimetre Castras were loaded with buckshot cartridges, turning them into miniature, handheld howitzers.

"Arseholes clenched, lads!" Careth Belisha skittered back and forth along 3 Section, Twelve Platoon's high and wired dozen snuffy grunts. "Keep em tight!" He bobbed up and down, raising himself up for a short second, enough to scan, acquire, aim, and waste his target, before dropping down, racking the action of his Accatran, depositing a smoking green shell on the duct board underneath his boots. "Hippity hop. Mob Stop!" Belisha spun around on his heel and came face to face with Aimo.

"You get this sector locked down tight!" Aimo, his face wet from the rain, ordered.

Suddenly serious, Belisha nodded emphatically. "Let's get to it, lads!"

"I'm gonna find Mister Corta."

* * *

The stink of propellant from my Castra stung my nostrils, getting inside my mouth and in my smarting eyes. Wafts of the stuff poured from the barrel when I broke it open to dump the spent HE round, turning into steaming vapour from the rain. To my right the north-east bunker was shaking non-stop as the sandbagged walls absorbed incoming small-arms fire and the thud of grenades.

The whole of Rakka was lit up now, with dozens of illumination flares wobbling down under small white parachutes, leaving faint luminescent worm trails. Cold white light of abnormal intensity cast shadows that were dark, deep, and deformed. Underneath the sanctified illumination I came alive inside. Every round fired from my Whupper was a defiant _fuck-you_ to Zeke, the Imperial guard, Cadia, and the lifers who invented them. Every round landed plum on one more black-faced, mean-eyed, butt-naked Zeke sapper, blowing off arms, legs, heads, and balls, spreading piles of Zeke meat across the killing zone and embedding appendages on the thin barbs of the wire.

From above the recognisable _thud-thud-thud_ of a .50-cal stubber boxed my right ear entirely. Friendly mortars exploded. Grenades banged. A puff of grey smoke announced the arrival of a rocket-propelled grenade that fell short of the perimeter by five feet, burrowing into the shallow earthen bank beneath the sandbags and exploding harmlessly. It also announced itself to me and I wrapped the Castra's sling around my forearm, taking aim through the ladder sights at where the rocket had come from. Aiming slightly above it, I squeezed the trigger.

 _Bloop_.

The peculiar report was muted by the cacophony around me. The round travelled straight and true, detonating right where I had aimed it, in front of the launcher-armed Zeke. In slow-motion Zeke's head dissolved into a fine cloud of pink mist then his body fell into pieces all over the area, blown away, killed in action and wasted, shot dead and slaughtered. In the ghost light of the flares, Zeke's headless body was a contorted blob of wax. One arm gone, one arm converted to pulp. Legs bent too far and in the wrong directions, ribs curving up incredibly white from inside a glistening black cavity which, as if on fire, was steaming.

Hastily dumping the empty shell, I fed my last HE round into the warm barrel and closed the breach, awaiting more targets to reveal themselves. But no other rockets were fired at us after that. _Wasted, zipped, dinged, KIA_ , I thought, satisfied with myself.

* * *

"Where's Mister Corta?" Aimo fell into the platoon CP from outside, bringing in slashes of rain with him.

"I know what you're asking for, Corporal, but the answer is a solid negative," Lieutenant Corta said. His hand was gripping a vox receiver taped up in a clear plastic bag, the long coil of which was trailing from a vox worn by his signaller who was kneeling with his back to Corta. "No Tac-Air tonight. They're all busy."

"Bollocks to that, sir!" Aimo spat in the dirt.

"Bollocks indeed. Ten Platoon's being hit too. Eleven are standing to. The OP's trying to pinpoint the enemy guns so the cannon cockers in Jark can stonk them."

"Nah, they'll be out of visual range, sir. They're heavy 175s."

"Right." Corta turned away from Aimo and hunched low with his hand over one ear and the earpiece pressed against the other. Pausing to check his M-36 was loaded with a full charge, Aimo listened for the whoops and hollers of Zeke, audible even over the crashing metallic orchestra of 12 Platoon's weapons. _This is_ _just a probe_. _They'll come again. And again._

* * *

Out of 40-millimetre, I rested my Castra against the sandbag wall beside me, careful to keep the barrel out of the mud, and calmly drew my Volg .45. With the loud snap of rounds passing closeby and the heart-rending reports of grenades exploding, I stood upright on the firestep, head and shoulders in full view of the enemy, and shot the first Zeke to appear; blinking at the loud clap my .45 produced. With the blinding light from the flares beginning to fade, Zeke became less and less visible, regaining the protection of the shadows, and clawing his way across the bodies of his pals that we wasted. With the sporadic illumination, I could see little beyond the perimeter. The bright flash of my Volg, dazzling Zeke with .45-calibre slugs, kept him honest, and kept him reminded that I was to be taken seriously. Eight times I shot Zeke in the only place I could see; his face. On occasion my pistol's barrel was almost pressed into mouths and eyes before blowing the skull outwards in a spray of blood, bone, hair, and brain matter; all of it shiny black. Dropping a spent magazine, I pressed a fresh load of eight Zeke deterrents inside the hungry weapon, wasting another mindless horde, made abominations by the night, before reloading again.

By battle magic, a Zeke popped up right in front of me. He was running on thin air, his little legs pumping the invisible ground beneath him. The freak occurrence made me pause for thought – a fatal mistake in a contact. The half-second hesitation revealed that Zeke was running across dead bodies covering the approaches to Rakka. In his hands was an automatic rifle, a Kazalak, and he was spraying the area in front with thirty rounds of .374-calibre to cut himself a path. Dirt sprung up from the punctured sandbags, hitting me in the face. Pointing my .45 like a finger, I shot the Zeke in the chest. He came on, firing, bayonet fixed and wavering. Underneath his close-cropped black hair was a face set in grim determination. Two eyes, also black, were fixed on a point above my shoulder. I was irrelevant to him, a single obstacle barring his headlong rush into Rakka. Twice more I shot him, both rounds punching holes in his chest, jerking him up. _Just how much further can this dead man run?_ The morbid comedy of the situation hit me with equal amounts of dismay and embarrassment. _Am I expected to stand here and look tough_ _whilst he runs me through with his bayonet?_ Unsure of what to do I emptied a further four rounds into the Zeke's chest before he mounted the sandbags and ploughed into me, legs first. Bowled over backwards, the trench floor rushed up to meet my back, knocking me dizzy. Two pairs of legs were stepping on me, their owners indiscernible. Bayonets met steel barrels and buttstocks, scraping along scuffed bodies until a blade was plunged inside a torso. The body that collapsed, finally dead, was my friend the indestructible Zeke. A face, upside down, was staring at me from above.

"Safe and sound!" Jacklyn Molke thrust a grenade – my grenade – in my face. The pin had been reinserted into the hole. He grinned.

 _Maybe you ain't half bad_ , was what he expected me to say. _Tough_. I wasn't giving him any praise just yet.

"We scared 'em off, Sarn't!" Molke exclaimed, working his bayonetted Kantrael out of the Zeke's stomach. Twisting it around Molke pressed a boot onto the body and gave a heave, freeing the blade from the stomach's suction. "Sarn't?"

"Nah. They probed us good. We took it in the arse," I said ominously.

A soft _click_ behind brought me whirling round to aim my .45 at a stocky figure in OG combats.

"Oh! Sorry lads, didn't mean to scare you!" the camera-armed reporter, Herle, raised both hands quickly, letting his camera bounce back against his chest where two more were hanging from around his neck.

"I remember you!" Molke, high from combat, exclaimed.

Suspicious of the reporter's snooping, I was perturbed to see that with his trio of cameras he wore a holstered wheelgun on his hip and carried an M-36 slung over his right shoulder. "Who d'ye think you are takin' sides in this shit?" I said quietly.

"Someone's gotta know about what happened here. Lots of guys like me attach themselves to Cadian brigades because they're, well, Cadians, best of the best." Herle worked the dial on his camera. "Maybe someone should focus on guys who aren't Cadians, seeing as they're in the papers so much. I wanted to find stories about other units, people like you, Larn. And you…"

"Molke," Molke smiled, striking a pose with his M-36. "Jacklyn Cassius Molke."

"Smile, Molke," Herle gave a thumbs up and snapped him. "How about you, Larn," Herle aimed at me, taking my picture before I could stop him.

Incensed at him now having my face, I took two steps forwards and grabbed the camera from his hands. "Ye not a grunt, civvie," I bared my teeth in a savage snarl. "You're not allowed to take sides in this. You just take pictures." At that I ripped the camera from his hands, tearing the elastic cord from his neck. Letting it drop to the wooden boards at our feet, I stamped down, hard, smashing it into little pieces. "Don't ever take my picture again. If you do, I'll waste you."

Herle, his face blank, said nothing to me when I moved past him and away down the trench.

Remaining at his post, Molke babbled out an apology. "He's not himself," he added. "I think Nemtess hurt him badly."

"Shellshock," Herle nodded, understanding. "Best leave him alone I think."

"Shellshock?"

Herle had seen several cases in the past, many of which disturbed him terribly. "He may never be himself again."

* * *

"We estimate our casualties to be 95 per cent, sir," Grase Sinh lowered his macrobinoculars.

"How many have returned?" Talvera asked him.

"None, sir."

"Make it 100 per cent then."

The loss of the sappers and a handful of cultists were of little concern for Talvera fully expected a near-total elimination of the probe. And now that the imperials had responded magnificently to the weak attack Talvera had learned, from his observers, their rough strength.

"We are facing a company-sized force of light infantry," he said to his gathered officers and noncoms. "No more than 200 men. Their support arms, from what our observers gathered, account to one mortar battery only. Fast-air and artillery are not at their immediate disposal, nor is resupply..."

Ben Elsh, raising a finger to get Talvera's attention stepped forwards and whispered in his ear that Lieutenant Hassid had returned from the excursion up Highway Six. "Mm," Talvera nodded then paused the briefing temporarily.

Marcos Hassid, loping up from the darkness, grasped Talvera's hand. His eyes revealed the recce had gained little headway. Talvera knew his answer before he said it. "Six is a no-go I am afraid, Lysell."

"Casualties?"

"Two. Mensa and Oureau. They were riding point on one of the bikes. The imperials blasted out the rockface from above and blocked the road."

"Have them sent back to the rear immediately. Make damn sure they aren't looted. We take care of our own."

"Yeah," Hassid's face was downcast. "How goes your mission?"

" _Our_ mission. It is our mission again now, Marcos. A probe I sent performed as expected. Come, let's rejoin the others. I interrupted the briefing for this, you know."

With Hassid at his side, Talvera conducted the briefing for the dawn attack which would be a two-pronged assault. The guntrucks, stubber-armed, with the lascannon truck too, would avoid the poor terrain directly north of the firebase and use the road to assault close to the east flank to distract the enemy. A mob-force of 800 cultists, a portion of them riding in trucks, were to dismount partway and attack on foot alongside the guntrucks and would be supported by 50 Rangers. Talvera would command. Simultaneously, Hassid, 35 Rangers, and 600 cultists would assault the high ground to the west of the firebase where an OP was located. There would be no preliminary bombardment this time. "Remember, these are not Cadian Shock Troopers but soldiers of lesser quality. Many of them will not have seen battle and will be, at most, classed as category-B troops. By tomorrow the hill will be in our hands and base and their resupply will be cut off. It'll be only a matter of time before they will be forced to capitulate."

Ben Elsh, wearing an urgent expression, waved a vox receiver at Talvera. " _Command for you, sir_ ," he whispered.

Irritated at the interruptions, Talvera plucked the receiver from his driver's hand and leant against the flank of his vehicle. "Jackal."

The message was short and ended in seconds. Talvera found himself suppressing a small smile though. "Reinforcements are forty-eight hours away, my warriors. Command confirmed. A platoon of tanks will be backing us up."

"Bah. We've never needed tanks to save us before, why now?" Kemmet said proudly. "Cyrric Rangers do not need armoured relief."

Talvera agreed. "The tanks will be the first of many. Now once we've opened the gap in the imperial line they can attack south towards Kasr Jark and then the big prize; Kraf. But I want you all to know now that it will be Cyrric Ranger vehicles that are first into Kraf, not some grimy tanker."

"Hear-hear."

"Honour and fidelity!"

"Honour and fidelity, gentlemen," Talvera slapped the tabletop. "Not let's get ready."

* * *

CQMS' bunker was dark when I reported back. As suspected, the company quartermaster had not left his hidey-hole to participate in the defence. It was his angry voice that roused the disdain I felt towards him again. "Did you sign for that ordnance, Sarn't?"

"Nah, Colour Sarn't," I replied stonily, slipping off the empty bandolier and looking for more forty-millimetre cartridges.

"I'm not talking about the bloody Castra. I'm talking about those blocks of Composition-C you stole."

"Nothin' doing, Colour Sarn't. Don't know anything about any Comp-C."

Sullen, CQMS sneered at me, knowing I knew that there was nothing he could do to prove that I had stolen the ordnance, aside from general suspicion. Meller he was certain too would not back him up, owing to his reputation. So instead, jabbing a finger at me, he said, "get out beyond the wire and recover any enemy ordnance you can. And bring it back here smartish."

"Yes, Colour Sarn't," I obeyed. _He's ordering me to loot the enemy for stuff that he can sell, the scumbag._

Working my way down to Aimo's position I whispered a quick warning at him and his wired section to hold their fire.

"Don't worry, we'll leave your corpse looking good," Aimo grinned sardonically, shifting his Rekyl to cover me.

Sliding a round of buckshot into my Castra, I said, "you have permission to loot if Zeke wastes me."

"Two seconds flat," Aimo helped me across the sandbag parapet. "I'm having your Whupper."

The kill zone was no longer a deadly garden of area-denial weapons. All of the Walloons and tripflares having already been set off by us or the attackers in the assault, giving way to the tides of wasted Zeke filling up water-logged shell holes and becoming entangled in reams of concertina wire. _Let 'em rot on the wire,_ I thought. Corpses like that were useful as deterrents, reminding Zeke of our killing prowess. They disturbed easily too. Often the exit wounds would fill up with maggots slowly eating away the flesh so that when somebody tried to peel the body off the wire by a limb, the skin would fall off leaving only stick-like bones left.

Close to the piles of Zeke we wasted now, I could see many wore little in the way of military gear, coming off as low-quality scum armed with a hodgepodge assortment of obsolete rifles unsuited for frontline combat. Piercings and tattoos covered their skin. Women were amongst them too, in equally threadbare attire and carrying brutal-looking shivs and blades of varying length. _Not soldiers at all; cultists._

A hand, buried underneath two other bodies, brushed a Voss machine pistol lying nearby. Bringing my foot down on the hand, I slowly put more and more weight on it until the bruised, swollen fingers slipped back out of sight. Bending down, I saw brass in the weapon's open chamber and removed the magazine. Clearing the crude, open-bolt machine pistol only required the removal of the magazine but I dragged it through the dirt, making sure to foul the internals thoroughly to prevent immediate use. There were more fallen weapons too, many more. So much that disabling or recovering was impossible on my own. _Damn CQMS, the lazy sod, ordering me out here._

Plaintive, grasping fingers wrapped around my ankle. A voice, pleading, pain-filled, whispered, " _help me, please_."

Reaching down for the hand, I worked the fingers off one by one.

" _Water_ ," Zeke groaned from underneath another Zeke.

 _Tough shit. Sorry Pal._ I glanced around nonchalantly, shaking my ankle when Zeke's fingers reattached themselves. _You don't rate slack._ For a moment I grasped the thin air where my 8-inch combat knife should have been before remembering I had misplaced it. Improvising in its absence, I unslung my Castra and brought the steel buttplate down on Zeke's wrist to the sound of bones cracking. _If you're not confirmed tonight, Zeke, you will be tomorrow._

Kicking away the limp wrist I dragged a Kazalak rifle out from underneath the body of its owner. It had been well within reach but using it had not been in Zeke's interest oddly. Underneath the muzzle was a thin spike bayonet, shiny and unbloodied, in contrast to the rest of the weapon, which had drying blood from one of the Zekes lying on top of it rendering it sticky to the touch and jamming up the bolt. But however crude they might have appeared, those rifles could still take a kicking and work, the same with any ancient design. Removing the steel magazine, I pocketed it and moved on.

Soft, gentle cries of Zeke, bleeding out in the midst of his comrades fell deaf on my ears. The crying did nothing to stir any sentimentality, even when the voice was a woman's. They were doing us a favour by dying without needing to be zipped. I had been struck by the ease of which the attack had been beaten back with zero casualties on Team Rakka, appreciating that we were managing to hold our ground this time around. Yet the mobs of cultists were the vanguard for the professionals, who had yet to flex their muscles at us. What form they would take: disciplined, organised infantry battalions with dedicated armoured units, or maybe Marines?

Caught up in the intense debate my mind was engrossed in, I abandoned my razor-sharp senses, a foolish mistake on my behalf which nearly did in for me. A loud – distinctly so – _snap-hiss_ told of a rifle shot passing within a few inches of me, so much that I felt its passage warm the air beside me. Dropping to the ground, I expected the follow-up to do me in forever. Then I heard a second _thump_ of something else hitting the ground, albeit slower and with more grace than I.

" _What?_ " I was alarmed to see a Zeke, clad in rags, standing on his knees behind me. The pair of shivs he had come very close to gutting me with were in the mud in front of him. A sad smile was on his face. Both his hands were clutched to his stomach which bled profusely. Acting quickly I grabbed first one and then the other, tossing them away. The ease of which Zeke had snuck up on me was disconcerting, to say the least. _Not so harmless after all, are you._ I reversed my Castra and beat him across the side of the head, hearing a sharp snap as his neck broke. The satisfaction rang hollow. I almost felt sorry for Zeke when he fell sideways. He deserved a much more prolonged death than that.

 _Is that you, Sniper?_ I turned to peer at the distance trees. _Bloody guardian angel you are_.

 _You owe her a lot_. Aimo's words came back to me then. _Yes, I do owe her a lot_ , I conceded. Tentatively lifting my left hand to face height, I waved, keeping the third finger curled. Somewhere beyond the dead zone, I imagined a figure, keeping me in her sights, was waving back.


	23. Chapter 22

**Firebase Rakkassan, 02:37**

In the silence that followed the sharp _crack-ka_ of the Arowana, Izuru remained perfectly still, listening over her slowly thudding heartbeat as the echo faded.

Balancing the wet Arowana on her left forearm, her hand gently gripping her dominant arm, she worked feeling back into her right leg which had gone to sleep. The cross-legged posture with one knee acting as a rifle stand granted her an elevated view of the approaches to the firebase, and a wider field of fire than if she had lain on her stomach amidst the soaking grass. The small handicap in stability was meaningless to her.

Where the two black silhouettes had filled her sights, one was now on his knees, clutching the area of his stomach where the .374-calibre round had exited after cutting a bloody path through his body at 830 metres per second. The other, half-turned towards him, in a low crouch, was staring at his would-be assailant in surprise, a short grenade launcher held in his left hand.

 _A Ranger greeting from me, to you,_ Izuru arched an eyebrow, mildly amused _._ Slowly her finger relaxed from where it was squeezing the trigger's slack. _Count yourself lucky you were not another._ _Now, run back to your hole, little soldier._ The faintly glowing red chevron of the Arowana's reticule, fixed on the human's small form, wavered a little when he did not immediately move. _Hurry to safety, young fool_ , Izuru urged. _Do you wish death upon yourself?_

Against her expectations, the human, tipping the brim of his camouflaged helmet up out of his eyes, transferred his weapon to his right hand then raised his left hand. _A hand signal?_ Izuru swept the area around him, backtracking over bodies she believed were cold. _Who do you call to?_

Beside the third finger of his hand, which was curled, all other appendages were extended. _He is waving, not signalling,_ Izuru realised, removing her eye from the Arowana's sights and peering over the barrel at him. The lazy motion betrayed an odd coolness in the human's manner, too calm for someone that had recently come under fire from an unknown location. _H_ _e is aware,_ Izuru relaxed and watched as he continued to wave his hand gently. The sight of a being, even a human, gesturing with their left hand, was farcical. It was considered a grievous insult to gesture with ones' left hand in Eldar culture.

Such ignorance could only be found in a human. He was not even looking the right way. At the sight of the foolery Izuru felt a tickle arise in her throat, one of oncoming laughter. Simultaneously, her heart began to beat faster.

A faint drumroll to her right broke Izuru's concentration, drawing her attention over to the west in the direction of Luten. The Kasr would be burning for days, weeks to come without anyone fighting the blaze. And in the aftermath, all that would be left were orange embers and black ashes scattered over razed, dead soil. But the Kasr's fate was not what struck a chord of fear inside Izuru. It was the rumbling crescendo of artillery that was falling upon the riverbanks.

 _Peter and Woulter,_ Izuru's heart was turned to ice by the thought of one or the other or both dead by artillery fire, and helpless to prevent it. The notion of a fatherless child or a childless parent, alone in the world, rained needles of agony in her mind, striking in her a mindless, bubbling fear that blocked out all rational thought in a haze of insane, primal terror.

Slithering back from her nest, Izuru set her rifle's safety and took off west, skirting around the edge of the trees. Detritus from the recent battle littered the area. Spent brass brushed the heels of her boots as she flew over felled trees. Empty magazines lay everywhere. Bloody bandages trailed from cultists that had managed to drag themselves out of the open field only to succumb to their wounds afterwards. Drag marks through the grass showed were the lucky ones had been hauled backwards by their arms and ankles. Hanging above it was the slow, creeping scent of death.

 _No,_ Izuru turned a blind eye to a gutshot cultist when he reached weakly up to grasp her trouserleg as she passed by. The pitiful moans he made remained in her ears even when she had moved out of earshot. It was such a human way, to die in an undignified manner, struggling for life and protesting against the inevitable. But the memories of Korr Nightspear, Varro the Fire Dragon, and Leyko the young Ranger, still grasping at her heart, reminded her that Eldar could die suddenly and without fanfare too. Their memories, and her failures of command, were branded inside her like a red-hot iron on flesh.

Her pulse racing now, Izuru was hit by a gust of hot wind that bore thin clouds of grey dust, pelting her face incessantly. Around her the thick groups of trees petered out, opening the canopy above her to the sky, which was thick with smoke. The world was a bright orange now, lit by flames from burning vehicles, some lying on their sides or inverted. Cultists scurried to and fro inbetween periodic explosions that hurled great clods of black earth skywards before falling in dirty clouds. Screams were carried around by the howling wind that spread fire through the wet grass as easily as if it had been bone dry. Bloodstains showed up bright in the night.

Amongst the mobs of cultists, a few mercenaries, distinguished by their different coloured berets, cupped hands around mouths, bellowing orders, some hauling wounded comrades inside hastily-dug slit trenches, the only protection they had against the shelling.

A black shadow against the swirling flames, Izuru flitted forwards, eyes searching for the two Tabors, stinging from the heat. Surreal images caught her attention. Beings caught up in the insanity of the inescapable situation. One cultist, striding nonchalantly through the chaos, swung a broad bat attached to a thin metal chain about his wrist. Necklaces of fingers dangled from his neck. Fresh blood stained his bare chest. Two children – _children!_ – leapt through small blazes, laughing and whooping. Their frail, naked bodies with somehow not a mark on them. Further afield, a mercenary lay cradling a dying friend, his head tilted skywards, wondering mutely why this had happened and why he could not protect him. He had tried to force his friend's partly-severed torso back together, not understanding that no matter how many bandages he tied around it, the important bits that should have been inside his friend's torso could not be gathered up and put back inside. He made a tiny _Oh_ sound in the short silence before more rounds screamed in, vanishing him and his friend from view. Two cultists, male and female, their senses dulled by the deafening thunderclaps, knelt in one another's soft embrace, swaying gently and brushing their cheeks on each other's faces; apparently at a loss for what to do.

With so many paralysed by fear and wishing the earth would open up to offer protection, Izuru slowed her pace, searching from group to group, seeking the distinct khaki drab of the Tabor's uniform or the bonnets of the Gellen Highlanders that were of a similar shade. Dirt-streaked faces spat strings of obscenities, muted by the artillery, at Izuru when she grabbed shoulders and turned bodies in her direction. Still no, Highlanders. No Tabors.

Conscious she was running around on her own now, Izuru stopped and backtracked, nearly losing herself in the nightmarish whirl of crackling flames that were in some places tall as buildings. It was Kasr Luten. She had come to Kasr Luten of all places. Eyes weeping in distress, Izuru wiped them on her sleeve and inhaled a lungful of cloggy air, making her double over choking.

 _Where are you?_ She flew away from the immolating Kasr, in the dark, losing her footing over a pair of bodies, sending her toppling over into the grass, gasping for clean air.

"You'll be killed!" a voice cried, followed by a hand reaching for her leg. Rag clamped over his mouth and nose, Woulter's reddened eyes blinked rapidly when he recognised Izuru.

"Peter?" Izuru crawled then rolled over into the shallow slit-trench beside Woulter. "Where is he?"

Woulter indicated a man-sized lump he was sheltering. Mercifully it moved and Peter raised his head. "Is it over, Dad?"

"If you wish to live, then come with me. I will lead you to safety!" Izuru urged, pulling Woulter's arm. "Now! It must be now. Do you want to be driven helplessly to the slaughter?"

"Peter, up!" Woulter lifted his son to his feet and followed in Izuru's wake. "Hi, Stickie! Where are we going?" he cried.

Ignoring the question, Izuru listened for the prelude to falling shells, quickly diving into holes and slit-trenches when the distance groan rose to a tumbling roar. Also attuned to the noise, but with far less sensitive hearing, Woulter and Peter took cover in the same manner, crowding in with cultists and mercenaries who, under the threat of instant death, suddenly became quite close.

Izuru's stomach was throbbing painfully when the heat finally began to subside. And about time too, the hairs on her face certainly felt singed, and her oversuit bore a coating of black ash, smudging the green and khaki into a filthy coal-black. Collapsing in a bed of wet grass she looked over at the two humans who had both sunk to their knees. Peter was shaking. Woulter too appeared badly rattled by the ordeal. His first words were bitter, and cut into Izuru deeply. "That wasn't the enemy. It was our own side."

"Are you hit, hum—Woulter?" Izuru swallowed. Using the human's name for the first time was difficult. "Is Peter hurt?"

Woulter murmured something into Peter's ear, the latter giving a subtle shake of his head. "Shaken, just a bit shaken. T-took us by surprise. It was fortunate we were digging in away from the main camp. You uh…" Woulter gestured vaguely with a limp hand. "Wasn't thinking you'd come back. Not after the Gellens…" He put a comforting arm around Peter's shoulders. "What's your name?"

"I can't…" Izuru, her eyes moistening again, whispered.

"Wasn't sure good xenos existed. Ones that make good of debts anyhow. We're grateful, Xeno," Woulter tried to smile. "So grateful."

"Izuru. My name is Izuru." Inside her heart a door opened, admitting the father and son. It remained to be seen whether she had made the wrong choice. "And I am leading you to safety. Now follow."

"First, are you – are you hit?" Woulter asked concernedly. "Are you?"

"…I," Izuru pressed a hand to her right side. It felt warm, unnaturally so. There were odd protrusions underneath her fingers, like ridges. " _Khaela…_ " Her pale skin was encrusted with small slivers of black shrapnel, like stones, extending in a small semi-circle from the soft part of her flesh underneath her ribcage, to just beneath her right breast. Seeing it and the blood leaking from the numerous little wounds made her afraid. The older shrapnel gash across her belly, gradually re-opening as the sealant wore off, gave rise to a bubble of fear.

Completely the opposite to how she felt, Izuru put on a display of cold indifference. "Not to worry. Our bodies are more resilient than a human's."

"Alright. Peter, are you ready?" Woulter gently lifted his son to his feet. Peter still had not said a word. He reminded Izuru of Keladi, so young and innocent but with her childhood ravaged by war. The terror of being bombed by one's own side, and the blank numbness in the immediate aftermath Izuru understood. She understood it well and knew that it felt like bliss compared to the pain that came later.

The return journey eastwards was made at plodding pace. Both of the humans were taxed for energy, evident in their hung heads and general silence. Neither carried a weapon, wearing only their khaki drab battledress which, like with Izuru's clothing, was caked with dirt and smelt badly of ash. At one point Woulter raised a question. Izuru ignored it and shut the humans out. Of a similar vein, she too was almost spent. The strain the worry was having on her nerves did not help.

"You will follow this track. It will lead you to an imperial base." Izuru, her hood up murmured to Woulter.

"You said safety." Dismayed, Woulter regarded her in acute disdain. "That's not safety, it's a prison sentence."

"Walk with your hands raised. Do not stoop or crawl. Peter, you must walk beside your father, not behind him or the imperials will shoot you."

"They'll shoot us anyway!" Woulter hissed. "A couple of dead enemy soldiers won't make any sleepless nights for them. And why in the dark?"

"By day the mercenaries watch the imperial base. Were you to make your approach then, you would be shot by them. Seek safety, I implore. No more fathers will die with their sons on my vigil; that promise shall not be broken."

"I don't think we want to," Woulter said adamantly.

"When inside you will ask for a soldier named Larn. He would appear little more than Peter's age, of short stature and favouring the left hand. But – I ask your trust – he will take care of the both of you provided that it is made clear you are with me."

"How do you know…?"

"Belay the questions. Your path is there. Tread it and do not look back."

Guiding Peter, Woulter asked back at her. "Why don't you come too? I doubt those mercs want much to do with you."

"My business with the Cyrric Rangers has yet to conclude," Izuru backed away, turned, and was gone.

* * *

"Three Alpha. Zero, my Three-One and Three-Three have repulsed enemy probe in force. Over." Mik Meller's hand trembled slightly from the excitement he had felt during the attack. It had been that and nervous apprehension. _Thank the Emperor Corta and Perandis's platoons performed well out there. I'd have struggled to make sense of the confusion._

Alone with Wharton in the dim CP, Meller waited for battalion headquarters to reply.

"Zero. Your orders still stand. Hold your ground. Over," the reply came crisply.

"Three Alpha. I'm not sure you understand the situation here," Meller said, trying to keep his patience at a proper level. "My callsign has just been probed strongly from the north by a force many times our number. Over."

"Zero. Three Alpha, can you confirm enemy strength? Over."

 _Just how am I supposed to do that?_ Meller's heart sunk. "Three Alpha. Negative. Not at this time. Over."

"Zero. My sunray can confirm. Reinforcements shall be diverted to your callsign's sector at earliest possible time. Over."

"Earliest possible time? Can you give a less vague answer, Zero?"

A rustle on the other end then a new voice came on, older and more authoritative. "Three Alpha this is Zero Alpha. Watch your tone. Over."

"Colonel, my callsign is under threat from very strong enemy presence. They just wasted their entire attack force to probe our northern flank. Now that tells me that they can afford to do something like that without batting an eye. My guess is that they have seven or eight times our present strength, and come dawn, they're gonna wash over us like a wave on sand!"

"Zero Alpha. You are not alone out there, Three Alpha. Friendlies are to your east and south. You have my word that your supporting arms will be available again soon. Right now there are battles of far greater strategic importance happening as we speak. Your firebase matters little in the big picture. Now at first light you will report back to me with an enemy killcount then we will go from there. Over."

"Roger that, sir. Can you confirm the earliest possible date that relief will reach us? Over."

A pause. "Negative. Over."

"Understood," Meller muttered. "Out."

"Shall I get the platoon commanders on the line for you, sir?" Wharton asked.

"No," Meller said sharply. "No, Corporal." Clearing his throat, Meller noticed Perandis had entered the CP and was waiting in silence. "Okay. Headcount, Sarn't."

Propping his M-36, which he had neglected to unload, against the table, Perandis said, "Ten Platoon all accounted for, sir. No casualties."

"Mister Corta and Mister Ehle?"

"Eleven Platoon didn't get hit, sir. Mister Corta has one man lightly wounded. No KIA."

"Alright, fine. Good job."

"Too easy, sir. It was too easy. Zeke pro—"

"Probed us, yeah. Make sure this gets out to the platoons. Fifty per cent watch, rotate as the platoon commanders see fit. Uh…"

"I've made sure ammo is distributed, sir."

"Ammo, yes."

"The cooks have been round with the hot stuff, sir."

"Good." _Now what am I forgetting?_ Meller racked his brains. _Come on, come on_. _There's always something forgotten…_

"558 sir. Mister Ehle has a section on OP there."

"Has the OP called in?" Meller said to Wharton.

"No, sir, not a word."

"Get the section commander on the horn. I want to talk to him."

"Are you thinking of withdrawing from 558, sir?" Perandis asked slowly. "We've got orders to maintain permanent OP there."

"I'm aware, Sarn't. I'm also aware that a dozen men will not be able to hold out against any concentrated assault which will be coming very soon."

"Yes, sir. But can I suggest we reinforce them with another section before withdrawal is considered?"

"If we had a section spare then fine but the OP is already nearly one tenth of our strength. Slicing another dozen from our number would only weaken our defensive posture."

"What about the cooks, the quartermasters, and the mechanics, sir? They weren't in the line with us earlier. Even a handful of extra riflemen would help."

Scratching the stubble on his chin, Meller considered briefly. "Right. Every man not in a combat role will fall out and draw rifles immediately then double up to the OP."

"Sir?" Wharton was holding the vox receiver out to Meller. "The OP."

"Have them send a guide down to us, Wharton. Sarn't, let's get cracking."

* * *

"Apple!"

"Cobbler!" I hissed back. "I thought I told you I was going beyond the wire."

"Wait, who is that?" A hurried click of a safety being disengaged made me duck down amongst the Zeke we wasted and hug the ground. The enemy weapons I had managed to haul back with me clattered against one another.

"Larn, Sarn't Larn. Ten Plat—" I broke off, realising my blunder. "I'm with stores. CQMS!"

"Hoi! Hold your fire. Let 'im in!" Aimo, to my intense relief, called softly. "Come on in, pal!"

"There's a good lad," I gasped, slipping over the brass strewn sandbags and falling inside the trench.

"You bring one of Zeke's ammo dumps with you?" Aimo laughed at the assortment of small arms I had on me.

"Just took what I could get." I noticed a slash across Aimo's cheek. "Nice little nick you got there, mate."

Aimo grunted, his hand brushing his cheek. "I Like my scars."

"Give us a look at that," Belisha, standing above me, tried to take the Zeke rocket launcher I had picked up from its dead operator. In the dark I could find no spare ammunition but thought it was better to retrieve it than leave out there for when someone that did have ammunition came along.

"Naw, give over, Lance Jack," I scrambled to my feet, shaking Belisha off. "This stuff's for CQMS. He's got me looting for stuff he can sell."

"Aw, what a scumbag. Wish I could be in his position, outta the way of the fightin'," Belisha said. "Why fight unless you can make a few credits on the side?"

"You mercenary trash," Aimo snorted. "Thought you _were_ the Imperial Guard?"

"I can exist as two separate bodies. I'm a lover and fighter, Corp. Best in bed and in the bondo," Belisha said smugly, picking 10-guage from his bandolier and slotting them inside his Accatran's tube magazine.

"Pick anything else good off 'em? Money, dirty picts?"

"Just Kazalak's and whatnot," I shrugged, unsteady underneath my load. "Yer welcome to shuffle out there if you want. See what you can find."

"Yeah. Just don't let Mister Corta catch you. They shoot looters," Belisha smirked.

"They wouldn't shoot me. Too pretty." Aimo, nevertheless, remained in the trench.

" _Good move_ ," I whispered once Belisha had moved out of earshot. "Who's that bloke anyway? All I got was a moustache with an idiot hanging off it."

"Belisha. We call him Elisha. He wants the section."

"Elisha…" I tutted, laying recovered grenades out along the parapet. "You hear anything out there just now?"

"Aside from you crashing around?"

"No shots?"

"Thought I heard an echo earlier, that's all."

"Right. Fine," I brushed off the concern that Aimo or anyone else had heard the sniper's round.

"So, what's all this then?" Aimo poked the thick block of Composition C that was still poking out from inbetween the sandbags. "You're not taking us all up, are you?" he said half-jokingly.

"Nah, mate. We're gonna use 'em once our Walloon supply runs out."

" _Tss_ , fine. Don't seem like such a bad idea."

"Nah. I've gotta report back to his holiness now. Won't be long." I heaved my bulky form up the trench, clattering against ammo crates.

"Larn. Be nice, alright? You already lost Ten. Don't go getting put on fizzers 'cause you couldn't toe the line with CQMS. He's your boss now."

"Nothing to worry 'bout, mate," I waved Aimo off. _I just hope he hasn't cottoned on to the real reason I've been setting RDX everywhere._

* * *

Hurrying behind the kitchen to where the cookforce slept, Perandis whispered loudly to the men sleeping in bunks. "Hey, you! Fall out and draw rifles!"

"Ma?" someone grunted.

"Come on, shake a leg!" Perandis ripped sheets off and shook shoulders roughly. "Look lively now. You're off on a secret mission."

"Sarn't?" Mess Sergeant Gale sat up, rubbing his bleary eyes. "What's the word?"

"You're infantry now, Cookie. Find your pieces, zip up your flak, and tighten your chinstraps. Rendezvous outside the company CP in two minutes!"

"Aw, Sarn't, you're jokin'," Olen Azar groaned, resting a forearm over his face.

"Negative, Private. Two minutes!" Perandis chose two men out of the eight-man cookforce to remain behind and work the kitchen. The rest were unhappily hauling on boots and zipping up flak jackets when Perandis tramped out to fetch the three men from Motor Transport. The on-off drizzle was turning the mud, already soft, into a slipping and sliding affair which further dragged Perandis' spirits down. One small consolation in the dirty, zero-zero weather was that the land would become impassable to anything heavier than a Hennus four-tonner; tanks and other armoured vehicles. Only metalled roads and well-worn tracks would support them, the latter the soul point of ingress into Rakka from the north.

"You lot have been requisitioned!" Perandis shouted to the three mechanics sleeping in the back of the workshop. "Forget M/T, you're rifleman now."

Motor-T, devoid of any techpriests, were three – normally eight – snuffy grunts in charge of maintaining Cannon Company's two Hennus's and one Wolf, the latter now absent, taken by the intelligence colonel, leaving the pair of Hennus's which were both rendered US – unserviceable – by the barrages. And without the right parts to fix them, Cannon's M/T was out of commission.

As expected, a rude rousing at three in the morning went down a charm with the mechanics, provoking colourful opinions of Perandis and the Guard in general from the trio who had all been sleeping soundly after their sudden awakening. Sympathetic, Perandis let the insubordination slide for he had also had his fair share of suddenly being forced to stand-to in the middle of the night in the past at an officer's behest. It was part of being in the Imperial Guard; never having enough sleep.

"Sleep is golden, don't you know," CQMS croaked when Perandis roused him.

"That it is, Colour Sarn't," Perandis smiled grimly. "Captain wants you, the cooks, and the mechanics up 558 on OP."

"Send that boy in my place, the Sarn't that was doing jobs for me."

"Can't find Sarn't Larn I'm afraid."

"Well look down in the trenches. He's probably skulking there with his filthy gang of friends."

"Negative, Colour Sarn't. Captain wants a section formed in…" Perandis checked the chrono hanging from the button hole in his collar. "Right now in case Zeke has a go at the OP. Can't be hunting around for individuals in the dark."

"Bugger off, Staffy."

"Do you want Captain Meller all the way up here? He'll drag your arse out on charges, Colour Sarn't. Zeke'll still be out there too."

"Damn that malformed malingerer," CQMS said under his breath, slowly reaching down for his boots. "If anything in here is messed around when I return…"

"Anything and everything in here is property of the Imperial Guard, Colour Sarn't," Perandis shook his head then clapped him on the shoulder. "It ain't yours."

"Watch it, Staff Sergeant. I'm one jump higher than you, remember?"

"That's affirmative, Colour Sarn't. Shall we continue this discussion with the sergeant major when he gets back?"

CQMS shot a filthy look at Perandis right before he slunk out of his dugout. Snorting in amusement, Perandis followed him out into the rain.

* * *

Silently watching the two NCOs depart I stole around to the entrance and barged into CQMS's bunker, depositing the Kazalaks and launcher onto a crate of fifty-cal ammunition. _Where's CQMS off to at this queer time?_ I wondered, parking myself on one of CQMS's foldout chairs. A rear-echelon lifer like him should have been tucked up tight in his dossbag, counting on us grunts to do the leg work for him and the rest of the second-line scrubs, not scurrying about in the rain well before dawn. Expecting him back in short order, I waited patiently, scrutinising the intricacies of the battered launcher in the meantime. With no official name for the thing I dubbed it _Stovepipe_ owing to its thin body and flared breech. The three enemy rifles were in similar states of wear, either bearing rust to the working parts or missing little bits such as receiver covers, cleaning rods or rear sights. Any quartermaster with an ounce of sense would declare them US, before turning them over for deactivation and later destruction. Our quartermaster though would find some way of making profit from selling enemy firearms one way or another. It was just as well he wasn't there, or he would have scooped everything up and hidden them out of sight. _Scooped everything up…_

"Aimo!" I hunted through the bunkers for him, passing a weak torch beam over the sleeping faces of skuzzy grunts. This was too good an opportunity to pass up. With no sign of CQMS, a veritable trove of buckshee kit existed for us to steal.

"C'mon, shake a leg, pal," I shook the red beam over Aimo's helmet-covered face. "Got a job for you."

"Don't you sleep?" Aimo pawed at my hand which was tugging on his ankle. "What time is it?"

"CQMS has done a bunk. I dunno where he is. I've got the run of stores."

Moving with the grace of a drunk, Aimo poked and prodded a handful of men in his section awake, Molke, Cyrano, and Belisha included, all to their immense chagrin. The poor attitudes and general consensus that it was all a tremendous waste of time I ignored.

"All of you grab ammo boxes and haul them out of here," I ordered once the party was gathered half-in, half-out of the dugout. "Make sure they're distributed all along the perimeter." Taking Aimo by the shoulder, I said, "Ten and Eleven's sectors too. Not just yours."

"Alright, lively now, lads. You can sleep once this ammo's been sent round." Aimo spoke over the assorted grumblings.

"Important," I emphasised to Aimo the rope-handled crates containing the packed demolition charges. "Just you and me with these."

"Why?" Aimo frowned in puzzlement as he passed containers of rifle ammunition up to outstretched hands.

"Don't trust anyone else," I grunted, setting boxes of grenades within the others' reach.

"That's strong stuff. D'you think we'll need all of it?"

"For the cultists? Yeah, absolutely."

"Uh… you gonna get some sleep later on, mate?" Aimo paused to wipe his hands on his trousers. "Have you slept at all?"

"I'll grab some Zoos later," I said defensively, hoping he had not cottoned on to my aversion to sleep. "This stuff's more important." I yawned as I said it. My first of the night.

"Why are we doing this?" Belisha asked, stumbling over boxes in the dark.

"Sarn'ts are sadists, that's what," a low mutter from outside.

I agreed. "How thick d'you reckon these walls are?"

"Uh, dunno," Aimo thumped on the back wall, discharging earth from between the wooden supports.

"I was thinkin' if we get more of those rockets inside the wire, and they're hitting bunker walls. How deep do you reckon it'll penetrate?"

"D'you know, I ask myself that question every morning," Belisha said in mock-seriousness.

"Ammo. Outside. Iggery." I heaped heavy belts of .50-cal into his arms.

"Better to have it spread around," Aimo nodded. "Does that flamethrower work?"

"Dunno. I don't know how to use one."

"Nah, me neither."

"Is there a sarn't in there?" A new voice called suddenly.

"Yeah, what is it?" I replied, pausing mid-movement to hear.

"Something's moving out on the road."

"You lads carry on here," I pawed off the rest of the .50-cal ammo to Aimo. "I'll be back."

"Shouldn't we stand to?" Aimo said after me.

Confused faces glanced around, their owners half-heartedly continuing with the task they had been set. Apprehension of a second attack made hands sloppy. Boxes of grenades were dropped in the mud. Ball and tracer belts were handled roughly and carelessly, sometimes acquiring dirt that fouled rounds. Not a single mind was on task. All were imagining the second black tide of Zeke stalking across the corpse-strewn, trap-free ground with bayonets sharpened and ready.

"How many of them?" I dropped inside a dugout facing east. Inside two lookouts were watching the road.

"Dunno, Sarn't." A private made to pass me his smudged field glasses but realised I had my own pair.

"Where's yer section leader, yer sarn't?"

"Asleep. They put us on stag."

"Well why not wake 'em up then?" I spoke harshly. "You drag me all the way out here!"

"…Sorry, Sarn't."

"Oh, never mind," I groaned, scanning the dirt road. "Gimme a rough estimate."

"Well, we just saw some, err…"

"What?"

"Looked like a couple o' deserters or somethin'. They wasn't armed or nothing."

Resting my glasses on the sandbags I watched and waited. With little natural light beyond the faint glow of the Eye of Terror the land around Rakka was a black void. _An armoured brigade could hide in that lot,_ I remarked.

"They say you can't kill true believers in Chaos. They come back to life," the private with the smudged glasses whispered fearfully.

"Chaos waste just as easily as we do. Now Orks, Orks come back to life. Unless of course you tie a satchel charge to 'em and watch their fat carcasses spread themselves over a big radius." I snorted gently, blowing air from my nostrils.

"There they are!" The fearful private's sudden hushed exclamation made me jump.

"Where?" I squinted hard.

"Two men with their hands up. No weapons in sight."

"Yeah, I got 'em."

Two figures were walking slowly up the road, apparently in surrender. "You got a section gunner up?"

"There's a Rekyl gun on the roof."

"Right, one of you get up there and tell the gunners to cover us. Oh and rouse the sarn't, will ya? 'Ave him find the staffy and get Mister Corta to stand to in case of attack."

"Yes, Sergeant," the other private scurried from the dugout.

"Got a spare piece?" I searched around for a rifle.

"Here, Sergeant," the fearful private scrambled to hand me a bayonetted Kantrael that was leaning against the wall beside him.

"Name." I took the boxy lasgun and set the safety to _single_ , removing the charge pack and licking it to test the charge.

"Koga, sir." Koga's fingers fitted the 8-inch knife bayonet over his Kantrael's muzzle. A trembling in them betrayed an acute nervousness.

"Okay, Koga, call me sir again and you'll be up on jankers, get me?"

"Right, Sergeant."

"Follow me lead. We're going in there fast so knock 'em in the stomach with your rifle butt. Always keep 'em off balance, see?"

"Yes, Sergeant." Koga was breathing heavily.

"Right. Go."

Sliding across the sandbags ungainly I felt my boots touch the ground on the other side, and I was running. Slightly slower, Koga made after me. The pair of surrendering Zekes came on, silent and without haste until I barrelled into the taller one, striking him in the gut with the butt of my M-36. Producing a pained gasp, the taller Zeke collapsed. Koga had not needed to hit the other Zeke, who had fallen to his knees. "Hit him!" I commanded. Half-heartedly Koga tapped the Zeke in the side. Aiming my M-36 with one hand and gathering a bunch of collar in the other, I thrust him forwards. "UP!"

"Come on," Koga pulled the other to his feet.

"Dominate the situation, Private," I reminded him, repeatedly pushing and shoving my captive to keep him off balance. "Comin' in!" I called out to the waiting Rekyl gunner. "Prisoners!"

"Right pair o' beauties you caught there," the gunner crowed from his perch.

Gesturing at Koga to bring the other prisoner along I said, "come on, Private. Let's take 'em to the captain."

Captain Meller, drowsy, suddenly became alert and attentive the moment I reported that two Zekes had walked into our arms. Staff Sergeant Perandis was called, and then the two Zekes were escorted into the CP. Made to sit on two chairs against the wall, both silent Zekes fell under my eye and my M-36. A second man was brought in to guard the prisoners. He carried a shotgun.

"What are your names?" Meller perched on the table in front of them. Folding his arms he sniffed. "Sarn't, get me their tags."

"Yes, sir," I reached forwards and dug out the older man's circular identity disks from underneath his collar. _Leurbach_ , _W.F._ Their owner stared sullenly at the space beneath the table. His receding hairline gave him an age difference of at least twenty years over the other. It was difficult to tell whether he was a veteran or not.

The same could not be said for the younger, who looked quite petrified at being in captivity. Yanking the cord from around the youth's neck, I noted the dark woollen khaki battledress both wore, and the damp spots from the rain. It reminded me of the uniform I had trained in. The itchiness of the wool and its absolute refusal to dry in any damp weather brought back bad memories.

 _Leurbach, P. J._ The two were related; father and son quite possibly.

"Both Leurbach." Meller read the details in his head then dropped the metal disks on the table. "Rank, unit?"

"Er," the older Leurbach cleared his throat. "I'm Woulter, this is Peter. We're both Tabor Territorials. S Company, Eleventh Battalion."

"Never heard of them. Did you both desert?"

"We were separated from the company. Our section was gunned down by cultists. Discilan Apostates," the older Leurbach said gloomily.

"Tell me about the attack tomorrow. When is zero hour?"

"I don't know. The mercs weren't really telling anyone outside their inner circle."

"Mercenaries?"

"Second Cyrric Rangers. They've got a mob of cultists as the core of their force. I think it was them that attacked you earlier."

"Staff Sergeant, note this down."

Perandis looked dubious. "Sir, how can we take anything these PWs say as truth before they've been properly debriefed?"

"Anything you want to know—" the older Leurbach began but was swiftly silenced.

"We'll get what we want, Tabor," Meller said. "Any deceit on your behalf and we send your boy back into the cultist camp."

"You will not touch him!" Leurbach, a fierce expression across his features, rose to his feet.

"Sit down!" I aimed my bayonet at his face and pushed him down firmly by the shoulder. The shotgunner had gripped the son's shoulder and was keeping him in place.

"We're not savages. We won't hurt your son, Tabor. The cultists on the other hand…"

"I will tell you what I know." The Tabor's fire had diminished. "But keep us together, please. He is all I have." With his weakness revealed, the Tabor could do nothing but comply. "It's a combined force of mercenaries and cultists. There are about seventy-eighty mercs, and the rest – just under two thousand, I think – are cultists."

"Tell me about their supporting arms. Armour, artillery, air support."

"No armour," Leurbach shook his head hastily. "No armour, just trucks mounting crew-served weapons."

"How many?"

"I don't know. Less than two dozen."

"Go on."

"No air support. There's sometimes artillery but it's fired from across the river. I don't know where from."

"Tell us something we don't know," Perandis said quietly.

"That all you've got?" Meller asked.

"Uh, that's all I can tell you. It's all I know," Leurbach glanced between Perandis and Meller; unsure who would be the one to pass judgement.

"Okay. Okay." Meller pondered over what to do with the PWs for a minute. "You'll be here for a while. At least until this little bother has blown over. You two will be treated in accordance. You have my word."

"Thank you, sir," Leurbach said gratefully.

"Staff Sergeant, a word please. Sarn't, take these two to the Pen."

"Sir." Exchanging my Kantrael for the shotgun, I urged the Tabors to move outside.

"Dad," the younger Tabor, in a little voice, reached for his father.

"No," I kept the two apart. "Hands on yer 'eads."

"We're grateful for your lot taking us in," the older Tabor said. "We promise we won't try anything. We just want to get away. To go home."

"Nothin' doing," I said bluntly.

The Pen was a low shack shored up by piles of shovelled earth. Light filtered through the tiny cracks in the roof and the single door. The Tabors went inside without encouragement and stood together in the gloom. Without a word I shut and bolted the door, peering through the squarish slat that was cut into the metal at head height. Unexpectedly a hand shot out and tried to grasp at my collar. Batting it away I reflexively aimed the shotgun's muzzle at the black slit. "You are the one the stickie described!" The Tabor's hand withdrew. "She knows you. How?"

"What stickie?" I sneered, gripping the metal slat in preparation to pull it across, shutting out the light. "I don't know no stickie."

"Larn. Is that your name? It is, isn't it? She said you were left-handed."

"Who said?" I pulled the shutter across halfway, enough so that the Tabor could not reach outside, and leant against the wall. "Sounds like a load o' toss."

"Izuru. Her name is Izuru Numerial, yes?"

"Never 'eard of her," I snorted derisively.

"Tall, slim, maybe six-four; do you recognise that? Strong nose, very dark hair tied back in a uhh, a coif. Golden eyes - sharp - one of them, the pupil is wider than the other. Now tell me you don't recall!"

"You wasted a bitch lookin' like that. Now you're describing her to me. 'Cause that's what it sounds like."

"She knows you. Why else would she mention your name to us? How did she know you were here?" Desperation was creeping into the Tabor's voice.

"If you wanna live, don't ever mention any o' this ever again," I mouthed furiously, slamming the shutter across. _How does he know?_ I stamped away, livid the two traitor guardsmen were addressing me by name. Thoughts of Izuru, and just what she was doing out there amongst the enemy, agitated my mind, working it up into nervous ball of uncertainty, confusing me as to whether I should care about her or not. _Do I care? What is she to me? I don't understand. None of it makes sense._ With endless doubt wracking my brain, I forgot all about rest or sleep, so tightly wound I was.

* * *

 ** _07:28_**

Dawn came and went. The sun was gradually rising, bathing the east flank in warm light when, from 10 Platoon's sector, a shot rang out.

"Cheeky sods!" I cried.

A hodgepodge line of cultists were assembling for an attack a little way beyond the trees, right out in the open. As I watched, a small convoy of vehicles, a mixture of flatbeds with guns bolted to them, and open-topped Hennus troop carriers, rolled out of the trees, directly across our field of fire.

"Come on. Let's have a go!" Aimo shouted from behind his Rekyl. Others around him were standing-to, aiming their rifles and lasguns at the distant enemy.

"On the command. Wait for the command!" I darted out of the bunker and squeezed up beside Aimo.

"What are you doing here? You're not in this platoon!" 12 Platoon's sergeant was there, less concerned about the enemy and more why I was not in stores.

"Sarn't, look at that little lot," I jerked my head in the direction of the merc force. "You need an extra rifle."

"Lieutenant!" the sergeant called out to Corta.

"Open fire!" Corta's voice shouted from inside his dugout before the sergeant could report me.

"Start working them triggers, you lot!" I shouldered an M-36 and pressed the trigger, sending a few optimistic shots in the direction of the moving vehicles. The slow thump of Aimo's Rekyl gun beside me plastered my right ear, so much that I did not hear the platoon sergeant's berating but an impatient tug on my sleeve brought me down onto the trench floor, face-to-face with him.

"Come on, you jumped-up malingerer." He pulled me into Corta's dugout. Inside the officer was subjecting the enemy to slow, accurate delivery from his IM Rifle. Crouched next to him, his signaller had the plastic bag holding his vox receiver wedged between his shoulder and the brim of his hard cover. He was flinching every time Corta's rifle banged and brass was scattered at his feet. On the bunker roof, the walloping _thud_ of a .50-cal stubber shook the supports above our heads; pouring little puffs of dirt down the collars of our flak jackets as if we were being shelled.

"Lieutenant, sir!"

Corta squeezed his trigger twice – a double tap – then put the empty rifle down. "What is it, Sarn't?"

"Caught this one standing-to in our sector, sir," the platoon sergeant pointed at me accusingly. "He's not a member of this platoon."

"Larn?" Corta nodded.

"Ho!" I nodded back.

"Glad to have you. As you were, both of you." Corta fumbled with a fresh magazine, dropping the spent one in the dirt and returning fire at the mercs who were now within effective range.

"Whack-ho, Sarn't!" Before the befuddled sergeant could give me any more lip, I charged back outside and over to the north-east bunker.

An open-topped Wolf was barrelling up the dirt road followed by other guntrucks and transports. The gunner – a man in a red beret – worked the mounted 30-calibre stubber, traversing it left and right, sending shorts bursts of fire in our direction.

"Where are our mortars?" Koga shouted inbetween volleys of lasfire.

"There!" Koga had spoken too soon for the Stump-Throwers crews were laying HE on and around the road. "Keep firing, Private!" I fired until the charge indicator on the side of my M-36 blinked red; empty pack. Unaccustomed to the Kantrael's weight and lack of recoil, I found it alarmingly easy to point and shoot without needing to aim.

A _crash_ of a mortar round exploding on the road sent white-hot fragments scything through the unarmoured windshield of the lead Wolf. The driver's face disintegrated in a cloud of blood, skin, and hair; spattering the windshield with red. His lifeless hands, still gripping the steering wheel, dragged it sideways, throwing the Wolf into a tight turn. Tight enough for it to skew sideways, tipping over on its side. Catapulted off the .30-cal, the gunner hit the road hard, rolled then was back on his feet in an instant. I got a split-second look at a thin, scarred man with a close cut of greying hair, wearing a camouflaged combat smock and black leather combat boots. Behind him the next guntruck had ploughed into the one on its side, now blocking the road completely. Unfazed in the slightest by his violent fall, the scarred man drew an automatic pistol, charged it, and got upright, firing as he retreated behind his fallen Wolf.

"Dammit," I spat. Twice I had fired at him, and twice I missed. He was definitely an NCO, or maybe even an officer. Relinquishing my Kantrael, I glassed the scarred man who was crouched in the cover of his Wolf, shouting and urging the hurriedly dismounting cultists to advance. Next to him, a larger goateed man in khaki fatigues and identical red beret was waving a stub pistol. He blew sharply on a whistle around his neck. The shrill _toot_ was the signal for the cultists to charge en-masse.

"Nope. You've had your chips," I shook my head. With the road blocked the vehicles were now bunched up on the road and unable to lend their heavy guns to the cultists' attack. The .50-cal team on the parapet above were having a field day, their bright red tracers boring into the mass of vehicles like blades through butter.

"Are we winning?" Koga asked naively.

"Think we've got this one." I licked my lips. The pair of officers were convening with one another. The one in camouflage, his pistol locked out of battery, shook his head and made a slicing motion across his neck. The other, distraught at the outcome, mouthed a single syllable swear-word then blew on his whistle. _Toot-toot-toot_ , the signal for retreat sounded.

"They're pulling back!" Koga shouted with glee.

 _As if we needed to be told that._ I stayed silent, waiting for an opportunity to snipe either one of the officers. But none presented themselves.

Pursued by 12 Platoon's fire, the mercenary vehicles struggled to extract themselves. The Hennus's at the rear, able to reverse without a hitch, retreated inside the trees. The guntrucks in the van however were bracketed by their allies behind them, and the impassable wrecks to their front. Two drivers, thinking they could brave the shell-plastered and corpse-strewn waste, flung their Wolves off the road, almost immediately becoming bogged down inside water-logged holes or wet mud; forcing them to abandon them and run off.

 _Too easy again,_ I watched the retreat, a dark expression clouding my face. _Come on, show me your teeth._

"Wow," Koga panted, resting a hand on the sandbags. "My first contact. I didn't think it would be that simple. Just sit there and shoot."

"They'll be back." As I said it, the sound of heavy firing came from the west.

"Are they still attacking?" Koga wondered aloud.

"That's Hill 558." Scooping my Kantrael up, I rushed out of the dugout. "Mister Corta!"

Little Olen Azar, still second cook and still nursing a resentment of the slimy little corporal – now sergeant – Larn, sulked inside the OP's sole dugout. Damn him and his sergeancy. Azar wanted to be a sergeant, but more than that. He wanted a platoon. He could lead the forty men better than Larn could any day. The little bastard had the favour of the higher-highers, and he was lucky too. If he was fortunate enough to have made it off Nemtess and survived the transition to Cadia then he wasn't someone to underestimate.

"Oi, movement!" the soft call came from outside.

"Stand-to, you lot," the corporal in command of the section from 11 Platoon moved through the sleeping bodies, poking, prodding, and shoving men awake. "Yeah, you cooks as well. Y'ain't in the kitchen now, lads."

"Aww. Fix us some eggs will ya, cookie," an 11 Platoon man groaned.

"Naw, my runs are doing a jig again, Corp," another rolled over in his dossbag. "Cain-Med exempted me from physical action for the next week."

"Get up, scumbag. I'll exempt you from rotating back to Rakka. How d'you feel about that?"

"Scurm. Weld," Breezy Gale shook the two other cooks awake. "Did you sleep, Azar?"

"Yeah, Sarn't," Azar nodded, shutting his eyes briefly as he did so.

"C'mon, shag it. Zeke's been spotted. Three-Alpha's ordering us to stand-to, most ricky-tick," the corporal said. "They're gonna hit us the same time they hit Rakka."

"Where are my glasses?" Weld had a brief moment of panic as the dugout's occupants came alive.

Gale wordlessly pushed Weld's glasses down from where they were sitting on top of his head. Azar smirked, noting the expression on his sergeant's face.

"You cooks with me. Colour Sergeant, Motor-T, get with the lance corporal," the corporal ordered. "Iggery!"

Spilling out of the dugout, the twenty men occupied firing positions, poking M-36s and their sole Rekyl gun out of slits built in the sandbags. Shoving his way inbetween the overweight Scurm and Gale, Azar leant into his M-36's stock, sighting at the furthest point on the grassy hill he could see before the slope fell out of sight. "Should be back at Rakka, Sarn't," he muttered. "This ain't good."

"You take one step down that hill, I'll come right after you and haul you back here, Azar," Gale glared at Azar over the body of his lasgun.

"Not me, Sarn't. All of us."

"Sounds queer hearing that from you. It's always look after number one with Olen Azar, isn't it?"

"Pfft, I'd have us all back at Rakka; all of us together. Twenty of us up here can't do much."

"Ops aren't supposed to do much, Private. Just observe and report."

A high-pitched whistle sounded from the bottom of the hill.

"Standby." The corporal said calmly. "Wait for my signal."

The single note was followed by dark figures materialising from the trees.

"Cor, they ain't half thick on the ground," Azar said aloud. He was surprised at the enemy's number and the loose manner in which their attack was kicking off.

"Numbers will not guarantee them an advantage. Not here." The corporal set his safety, aiming at the horde below. "When they crest the ridge to our immediate front, open fire. They will be forced to climb over their comrades' bodies as they tumble down the slope. Think of it as a human avalanche."

"What's an avalanche?" someone asked after a pause.

"Quiet. Look to your front," the corporal spoke with a biting tone. "The advantage lies with us."

"Think I may need a commissar," Azar snorted.

"Reported."

"Azar, shut it," Gale said sharply.

Silence fell. In the distance heavy quantities of automatic gunfire indispersed with the higher-pitched whine of lasguns was audible. Rakka was being hit. Now it was his turn, Azar thought. Removing the ongoing firefight at Rakka from his mind, Azar's ears pricked up to the sound of a staccato thumping as if a million boots were trampling over the same patch of ground constantly. It was dragging out. The eeriness of the silent, oncoming attack uncanny in that Zeke was not making a sound, instead relying on complete silence to scare the would-be assailed; so quiet the area around the OP was that the breathing of the twenty men could be heard.

"Contact," the corporal said evenly as a head bobbed up. Beside it another, then four or five more sprang from the lower slope, cresting the rise in unison. "Fire."

The simultaneous bark of twenty Kantraels, LARs, and the Rekyl split the dawn stillness on Hill 558, beginning business for the day. Squeezing his trigger mechanically, Azar regarded the cultists, who were falling like flies, with a measured coolness. This was what he was destined to be. He could be a sergeant, an even better one than Larn or that oaf Gale. _Just give me the opportunity to prove myself!_

As spent brass fell downwards from his section's Rekyl, the corporal tucked his vox to his ear. "OP. Three Alpha. Contact. Contact. Over." Pressing a finger into his other ear, the corporal struggled to listen to the reply. Screwing up his face, he spat into the ground then blew into the handset. "Hello, Three Alpha?" Something was wrong with comms. "RUNNER!"

Azar heard the bellow and knew it was supposed to be for him. "Ho!" he cried, sliding down from his firing position.

Without question, the corporal jabbed a finger in Azar's face. "Run down to Rakka. Tell the captain we have established contact. Heavy concentrations of Zeke. And see if you can bring another section automatic up here."

"Yes, Corporal," Azar nodded eagerly, taking off down the trench.

"Hey. Come back after!" Gale shouted after him.

Scrambling past the other men, the cook clambered over the shallow sandbag parapet and took off down the slope, dodging around the gaps in the barbed wire coils. Rounds, stray or aimed he could not tell, made a _putt_ sound as they impacted the ground around his feet. Those that _whizzed_ through the air were louder, closer to the cracking of giant whips. None of it touched him though, to his exhilaration. _Stupid Zeke can't shoot straight,_ Azar laughed, leaping down the grass slope. The last stretch towards Rakka had been blasted free of any greenery, encircling Rakka in a ring of blackened soil and uneven ground. It was through that Azar struggled before coming round to the south side of the base and haring through the main entrance.

"Sir!" Azar saluted clumsily to Captain Meller on his entry to the CP. "OP has contact. Corporal's looking for orders."

"I know that, Private. We heard," Meller stared at the panting Azar. "Can you hold for now?"

"Think so, sir. Zeke's trying to rush us. We're piling him up as quickly as he can come at us, sir. We could use another automatic up there."

"Right. Go and find a Rekyl from stores. If you want you can wait for a minute, catch your breath before heading back up to the OP."

"No, sir. I'll go now," Azar gasped.

"Well done, laddie. Are you in Mister Ehle's platoon?" Meller asked quickly.

"Cookforce, sir. Olen Azar."

"Good luck, Azar. Emperor be with you."

"Thank you, sir," Azar dashed out of the CP, feeling pleased with himself. _Yes, yes, yes_. Volunteering, that's would he would do from now on.

Finding nobody inside stores, Azar grabbed a Rekyl, a corresponding pouch filled with loaded magazines, and hurried with it back up the hill. As expected, the going was much more difficult. With his M-36 slung over his shoulder, and the weight of the heavy Rekyl gun and ammunition, Azar flagged. The lone figure must have seemed enticing for Zeke for he shot at Azar constantly, dogging him with bullets that passed teasingly close, enough to crease his combats.

Breathing hard through his nose, his legs on fire, Azar made it up to the OP, still hauling the Rekyl by its carry handle. Noticing him with the gun, the corporal gestured to the extreme left of the OP. "Left flank! Left flank!"

Too exhausted to reply, Azar shook off his lasgun and carried the Rekyl in both hands over to the left flank. Setting it up on its bipod legs, Azar worked the bolt back and forth and opened up on the swarming cultists.

"Base of fire left!" he dimly heard the corporal cry. Working the stubber like a machine, Azar momentarily felt the gun stop; out of ammunition. From nowhere a hand pulled free the empty magazine and slotted another into the top of the gun. Oblivious to the assistance, Azar chambered his Rekyl and jammed his finger on the trigger, cutting down more and more cultists.

Smoke was rising thickly from the barrel when the last Zeke fell. Remaining glued to the weapon, Azar stared at the heaps of dead, caught in a strange, dreamlike trance. Frozen and wide-eyed he did not blink when the hands worked to clear the weapon and change the warped barrel.

"Well. You ain't no coward, that's for damn sure," the voice belonged to Scurm. Lazy, overweight, petulant Scurm.

"Good work there," the corporal's gruff congratulations fell on deaf ears. "If you hadn't brought that stubber back with you, we'd have been overrun good and proper."

Azar said nothing though his desire for recognition was even stronger.

"What d'you want a Star of Terra?" Gale shook Azar by the shoulder roughly. "Get down from there."

Azar glared darkly at his sergeant's back as he moved away. _He's always the same man_ , _never satisfied, never congratulating_. _Well I'll show you_. _I'll be sergeant of infantry soon. And you'll still be peeling potatoes._


	24. Chapter 23

**Rakka, 07:47**

Stirring from the east, the first gusts of wind bore the faint scent of death over the kill zone that was uneven with shell-holes and small mounds of Zeke. Rigor was setting in, hardening their limbs, many of them stuck up in the air, creating the illusion that they were locked in a struggle when they died.

Sitting quietly with my back against the trench wall in 12 Platoon's sector I slowly unwound the, now dirty, dressings I had tied around my hands and replaced them with a clean pair. The cool air made the cuts prickle, as did the pressure from the dressings I tied tightly. Without a word Aimo passed a cigarette to me then lit it once he had seen to his. Nobody talked. There was no point in talking for it would only bring forth questions none of us could answer.

"What are you thinking?" Molke inquired. He had seen me staring straight ahead, apparently transfixed on something interesting growing out of the wooden planks boarding up the trench wall. But it was nothing.

"Don't ever," I responded after a long pause. Turning my head slowly to look down at Molke squatting on the mucky duckboards I said, "you think too much, you become dangerous, to yourself and to the unit."

"Affirmative," Aimo added. "The Imperial Guard's big secret is that we can turn ourselves off with just one flick of the grunt switch."

"Observe." I reached up to my left ear and took hold of the top half with my thumb and forefinger. "I'm wired." I pressed down with my forefinger. "I'm a sack o' shit." I pressed again. "On and off."

Molke tried it. "…It doesn't work," he said confusedly. "Am I doing it wrong?"

I couldn't even be bothered to sigh. Aimo however was more patient. "Look, the ifs and the whens don't apply in the bondo. It's right here, right now that matters." Aimo blew out smoke. "You're not worrying about anything. 'Cause right now there's nothing." To me he said, "cross swords?"

I grunted in reply. Crushing our fags underneath our bootheels we undid our respective double-zippers of our OG trousers and aimed our weapons in an interlocking fire-pattern.

"Splash, Molke," Aimo snorted. Crab-walking quickly out of the way, Molke watched as Aimo and I urinated on the trench floor. The twin golden streams crossed over one another, landing in the muddy gap between the duckboards and the sandbag wall.

"Ain't half got a lad on him, he has." A private in Aimo's section commented in amusement. "Give it to 'em 'ard do ya, Corp?"

"Both barrels yeah," Aimo, still in mid-flow, said over his shoulder.

"Up for a spit-roast sometime?" another chuckled.

" _Spit-roast?_ " I mouthed.

"Never in a million years with any of you scumbags," Aimo said firmly. "Much use as a cock-flavoured lollipop you lot would be in bed. Sarn't here outstrips us all. S'why he's got his three stripes an' I've only got two."

"Corp has two at a time, Sarn't has three?" someone asked.

" _Don't say anything_ ," Aimo mumbled out of the corner of his mouth before I could reply. "That's right. Them poor cultists up over there don't get any action. S'why they're so mad at us. Just send 'em all to the brothels on Haven, and all this mess'll get sorted out in no time."

"Number one."

"...Should just about do it," Aimo halted his flow and zipped up his fly.

" _What ye sayin' 'bout me?_ " I whispered when sat down.

"Just saying. They'll respect you more if it's on record that you're good in bed," Aimo replied in a low voice, glaring sharply at Molke who was trying to listen in. "Just trying to big you up. Go with it, you're a sarn't. Gotta be somethin' going for ya."

"Bloody hell, mate, I wouldn't know where to start," I gulped. "Dunno how it all works."

"Tell you what. When we're on leave on Haven I'm gonna take you out to one of the flesh houses, we'll get ya sorted out there; no sweat."

"They'll respect me more if I still had platoon," I pointed out.

"Ah, you'll get it back someday soon. Just gotta wait for Perandis to get wasted."

"He's a staffy, he's learnt 'ow to survive."

"That cunt Ehle then or maybe Corta's platoon sarn't. If he goes then Corta's gonna have a buck sarn't placement ready for you to slip in to."

" _Hunh_."

"Maybe you'll even make officer…" Aimo grinned.

"Fuck off."

"Oi, stand-to! We got a white flag," a lookout barked suddenly.

"Rifles up, guns ready!" I forgot about everything that had been said then. Picking up the .338 I had swapped my M-36 for I joined Aimo's Rekyl team on the firestep and scrutinised the far-off treetops.

* * *

'Kat' Katecka, fullscrew of 3 Section, 10 Platoon, had in fact been the first to spot the white rag waving back and forth through the patchy clouds of smoke that had arisen in the wake of Zeke's attack. Opinions ranging from dismay, to scorn, to grim amusement were shared amongst the ranks of 10 Platoon. Could this be the enemy offering his surrender? A few optimistic individuals thought.

"No escort," Mik Meller decided after glassing the lone figure who was striding nonchalantly through the waste in the direction of Rakka.

"Seems that way, sir." Perandis lowered his glasses and glanced at Meller.

"If he won't then nor will I," Meller said, removing his cover and replacing it with his beret. "If there's trouble make sure Mister Corta knows he's in charge. Now cover me." Behind Meller the rifles of 10 Platoon were aimed at the enemy officer as Meller left the protection of the perimeter trench. Bearing no equipment beside his laspistol, Meller went forth to meet who he assumed was the mercenaries' commanding officer.

Blood shone in the early-morning sunshine, glistening on the piles of bodies, and slowly soaking into the earth which was drying out after the previous night's rainfall. Try as he might, Meller could not prevent the soles of his boots from becoming sticky with it. Human blood was so bright, disturbingly so when it was covering the ground. Unused to the sight of it, Meller's stomach lurched. It smelt too; a faintly metallic tang. Swatting at a fly buzzing around his head, Meller watched a wreath of smoke part, revealing the soldier in faded combats and a red beret. He was now equidistance from Rakka and the treeline, roughly 150 yards. Visible now in the distance were two long ranks of cultists a stone's throw beyond the trees, aiming at him and at Rakka. Resting his hands on his hips, Meller composed himself, covering his nervousness with a mask of measured confidence as the officer approached.

"I had expected to be taking a late breakfast in your headquarters, Major," the officer said mildly.

 _Major?_ Meller realised the officer thought he was the company commander. That impression he quickly decided was one to uphold. "Your confidence in your mens' abilities was misplaced."

"Rather I think we underestimated your troopers' resolve. I shall inform you now that your company is outnumbered by a factor of fifteen. Further resistance against us is futile. I require your immediate unconditional surrender."

Keeping a passive expression, Meller glanced around at the dead Zekes nearby. "There's a lot of dead men out here. I don't think any of them are mine."

"I can afford to take such losses. You cannot," the officer said matter-of-factly. "It is only a matter of time before you are overrun. Surrender."

"Mercenary units are not officially sanctioned to accept the surrender of an imperial garrison. But if the thought ever crossed my mind, my men would lynch me. We are a company of deadbeats, washouts and rejects. If you put our backs to the wall like you're doing, you'll find out just how hard a cornered beast fights. Many more cultists, your men included, will be lying out here tonight."

Giving a subtle shake of his head, the mercenary officer said, "you are cut off, without chance of resupply. We chased off your gunship yesterday, we will do the same again. I wonder how many days your ammo can last. Or your food."

"Is there something relevant you wish to discuss, sir? Or can we retire to our respective sides?"

That caused the mercenary to bristle and straighten his beret. "Your chance to surrender without loss of life is now, Major. There will be no other flag of truce. Be aware that other commanders will not show the same mercy to your unit as I have."

"That's very kind of you. We may show the same towards yours," Meller nodded; satisfied he was causing the mercenary some annoyance.

"We would like a ceasefire to retrieve our wounded. One hour."

"Very well. One hour," Meller agreed.

Spinning on his heel, the mercenary stepped over a dead cultist and walked back in the direction of his men. The white rag held behind his back he tossed into the dirt. Meller, turning back towards Rakka, wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell. More and more flies were being attracted to the carnage, landing on the seats of trousers which were stained dark where dying men had loosed their bowels. Forcing himself to keep his pace relaxed and remembering the rifles trained on him, Meller took pains to remain upright. Behind, stretcher-bearers were hastening amongst the wounded, searching for anyone still alive. What Meller could not see was that they only sought after mercenaries, not cultists to retrieve.

Meller's chrono read _0759._ All was quiet. The one hour's guaranteed respite would give his men some much-needed rest and time to eat, many of them having been on rotating stag during the night leaving eyes sore and trigger-fingers twitchy. Meller himself was looking forwards to breakfast once his admin was seen to. The two cooks that had not gone with the rest of the support personnel up to the OP would be hard-pressed to whip up heated scran, but they would cope.

A figure waving from the trench stirred a feeling of unease inside Meller's, already worked-up, stomach. It was Perandis. He seemed to be urging Meller to hurry up. _I'm coming_ , Meller signalled with a hand raised in front of his chest, unseen by anyone behind him.

"…behind you!" Perandis' cry was faint.

The warning came at the exact moment a short burst of gunfire sounded – behind Meller. A red-hot sledgehammer blow hit him in underneath his shoulderblade. His legs were swept out from under him. Rakka skewed sideways as Meller slipped down into a shell hole. His left arm numb, Meller dug his right hand into the earth, clawing at it, searching for purchase to halt his fall. A splash and he came to rest at the bottom of the hole half-in, half-out of a pool of filthy water amongst three Zekes, their limbs stiff and cold to the touch.

"OPEN FIRE!" Perandis, furious at himself for allowing his captain to walk right into such an obvious trap, snatched at his .338's trigger, pumping it relentlessly as Kantraels, Rekyls, and other .338s opened up around him. _Damn these dishonourable soldiers-of-fortune. War profiteers only in it for the money. I'll make them pay._

"Sarn't, we gotta go get Captain!" Kat cried. "Let's blanket the dead zone with smoke then stonk the treeline with HE!"

Seeing the corporal's reason, Perandis shook his head clear of the anger that gripped it and lowered his rifle. "Okay, get over to the mortar platoon then. Iggery!"

"Captain's out there, Sarn't," a voice screamed.

"Hold! Wait for the smoke! The smoke will cover us!" Perandis flinched as rounds snapped above him. Glassing the cultists, he saw the double rank had broken and they were storming forwards. In their midst were a few mercenaries bearing heavy weapons. "Aim for the mercs! Target the mercs!"

When informed of their target by Kat, the mortar crews set to work blanketing the dead zone with smoke rounds quickly followed up by HE which was expertly dropped amidst the cultists and mercs. Satisfied the enemy's view was obscured Perandis led a party over the top, hastening over to where Meller was.

"Here. Down here!" Meller waved at them with his laspistol.

"Can you walk, sir?" Perandis skidded down into the hole.

"Walk? I can run back to Rakka," Meller laughed.

"Right. Cover fire, you lot!" Perandis ordered, hauling Meller's arm over his shoulder.

"Careful! There might be Zekes hidden underneath bodies. Watch your fire." Meller wobbled unsteadily against Perandis.

"Yeah, come on, sir. Ral will have a look at you. You'll be right as rain."

With tracerfire spitting through the clouds of smoke, the party made it back inside Rakka.

"Where's he hit?" Ral Bleak was waiting in the trench with a stretcher team.

"Uhh, shoulder, just beneath it I think." Meller pointed awkwardly underneath his left armpit. "Arm's a bit numb."

"Right, this way, sir. We'll look at you at Cain Med," Ral ushered Meller away.

Perandis noticed eyes were on the trench instead of where they should have been. "Oi, swivel those heads. Eyes facing front. You see any more white flags, just shoot."

* * *

Scrambling from hole to hole, Talvera snatched a glance back at the firebase as a barrage of shells exploded far behind him, coughing out grey smoke that quickly obscured the area. Forgetting that for a moment he bobbed his head up and down when the crackle of small-arms fire came from both sides. Advancing without orders, the cultists were rushing pell-mell over the ground their comrades had already failed to take the previous night – the fools.

"Retreat! Retreat!" Talvera waved his beret desperately. He could see some of his own men had joined the attack, hauling Ruchmyots launchers and belt-fed stubbers to assist in the cultists' attack. To Talvera's fury some of the fire was directed at him. Something white-hot skinned the back of his hand making him jerk it back from the lip of the shell hole. _Those bastards will shoot at anything_ , he seethed, swearing as blood ran down his wrist. While he would not hold a candle to those undisciplined mob of maniacs, his Rangers should have known better. Predictably the smoke bombardment preceded HE with the latter disorienting the grungy attack and turning it back once casualties began to mount. "Fools. Bloody fools," Talvera muttered.

Marcos Hassid fell in beside him when Talvera made it back inside the trees. "We did not open fire," he said quickly.

"I know that!" Talvera snapped. "Nor did the imperials. One of the cultists out in no-man's land. I 'eard the shots."

"And now all chances of resolving this peacefully 'ave been swept down the drain," Hassid muttered darkly.

"No matter, that was resolved before the shooting started. They will never surrender, Marcos. Not whilst they have food and ammunition," Talvera lit up a cigar, taking a long drag. "Bloody fanatics, the lot of them. What I want to know is why you let the men fly off the hook just then."

Hassid shrugged. "The charging bull. Once it sees red there is no stopping it.

"I'm not talking about the fucking cultists. I'm talking about _our_ men." Talvera jerked a thumb at his chest. "They should know better – _you_ should know better, Marcos. Tell me the bodycount."

"Two of our own dead, another two wounded. One missing."

"The cultists?"

Hassid just shrugged. "I don't know. I lost count. When do we attack again?"

"Let me think. We need to analyse our tactics here. Choose a new approach. We are wasted in a frontal assault," Talvera said, wiping his bloody hand on a rag and clenching it tight.

Further back in the shadows cast by the trees, the vehicles were parked in a leaguer. The Rangers that were uninvolved in the attack were resting, eating or performing maintenance, most likely oblivious to the shambolic assault. Ben Elsh, one foot resting on the bonnet of Talvera's guntruck, offered a vox handset to him. "Sir, Command wants to speak with you."

"Jackal," Talvera wiped his sweaty face on the back of his free hand, trying not to sound too weary.

"Good news?" Hassid waited expectantly when Talvera was finished.

"Tanks tomorrow," Talvera said shortly, passing the vox back to Elsh, the latter wiping it on his trousers.

"Is that all?"

"Not how many or what kind they are. I just hope they don't send us tank-killers. We need howitzers."

"Tanks won't break their line."

"No. But a combined assault will succeed. Gather the officers and NCOS. I want a meeting."

The blare of a jet engine turned all faces skywards. Through the trees it was impossible to tell whether the aircraft was friendly or not but the amount of imperial ships were decreasing steadily by the day as more were pulled from reserve pools and sent to the fronts where the fighting was heaviest.

* * *

I could already tell that it would be a long day, one with periods of boredom that stretched out the time. Having not slept a wink the previous night, I was feeling twitchy and irritable when I headed down to Cain Med to see the captain. Ral Bleak was there tying a dressing around Meller's bare chest. Meller himself was shaking his left arm to restore feeling into it when he noticed me. "How are our stores doing, Sarn't?" he asked.

"Lift," Ral commanded Meller to raise his left arm. Meller did so. "Higher."

"Doin' alright, sir," I guessed, really having little idea how well stocked the company stores were.

"Did you check in with the mortars, Sarn't?"

"No, sir." _Should I have?_ I wondered.

"Well, I'll tell you now we've got a dozen rounds apiece for our tubes. And the resupply was loaded with 2-inch shells; useless. Any more in stores?"

"I didn't see any greenies, sir."

"And once the tubes are gone, all we've got left are small-arms."

"Sir, can I bring this to yer attention." I produced a demolition charge from where I had stuffed it in a baggy thigh pocket. "CQMS was sitting on a stash of RDX."

"And did you ask before taking it, Sarn't?" Meller eyed the thick, rectangular block I was holding.

"Well, I dunno where he is, sir. I dunno where the colour sarn't is."

"I sent him and others up to Hill 558 to reinforce the OP. I thought you had gone up there too. Did the company quartermaster sergeant order you to go?"

"No, sir. I've been with Twelve Platoon all this time. I couldn't sit around in stores, sir. Had to do something."

"Well I trust you haven't been misusing all that ordnance, Sarn't."

"Sir, I'd like permission to rig—"

"Incoming mail," Ral said suddenly. Everyone froze as, in the far distance, a rumble grew.

"Heavy shit," I said, feeling the tremors in the air.

"That's affirmative." Meller grinned, blasé.

"Sir, I'd like permission to set up a treat for Zeke," I repeated as howitzer shells began to fall on Rakka. "These blocks of RDX are gonna go to waste otherwise."

"Have you spoken to the staff sergeant first, Sarn't?"

Biting on the inside of my cheek, I realised the captain had a point. By going to him first I was circumventing the chain of command and liable to be written up for insubordination. So I settled for a compromise. "Write me up then, sir. I confess, I've already been hiding blocks of this stuff all 'round the perimeter in case we get overrun which is looking pretty damn likely now our tubes are running low on ammo and Tac-Air's nonexistent."

"Very well, Sarn't, it's official. I will write you up once this bother has blown over. But, in the meantime, good idea, let's expand on it though."

"What are you planning, Larn?" Ral looked bewildered. "Aren't thinking of taking us all with Zeke, are you?"

"Number ten, Ral. I wanna live to tell the story."

"Live to tell my grandchildren about it," Meller added, tugging on his grimy undershirt and OG combat jacket. "And mightily bored they'll be. Right, Larn, ditty-bop to CP."

"Would you rather not stay here, sir? It's raining outside." Nonetheless Ral passed Meller his bootneck flak jacket and dented hard cover.

"No, no," Meller brushed him off casually. "Right, Larn. Off you go."

 _Lumme._ _He's got a charmed life, he has,_ I thought as Meller strolled through the falling artillery even as I ducked and dodged, keeping low in the run over to the CP. Reaching the safety of the sandbagged CP steps, I gestured madly at Meller to quicken his pace.

"Nothing doing," Meller shouted, taking me by the shoulder and leading me down the steps. "An officer must always show disdain for enemy fire – _always_."

"Well lucky I'm not an officer, sir," I replied, working a finger inside my ringing ears, "'cause I couldn't do that."

Calling Perandis, Ehle, Corta, and the sergeant in charge of the mortar platoon into the CP, Meller outlined the plan. "Zeke is going to break into the base, one way or the other. We don't have enough firepower to keep him out forever. Now with RDX kindly donated by Sergeant Larn from stores, we will rig explosive traps for Zeke."

Lieutenant Ehle raised hand. "Sir, what is Sarn't Larn's business here? Where is CQMS?"

"CQMS is on 558. Sarn't Larn is acting company quartermaster sergeant for now."

Standing to one side, I noticed the reporter, still lacking any sort of sense, scribbling down everything Meller was saying. Why he had not fled southwards with the refugees was anyone's guess. We didn't need a damn scribe taking note of everything that went on at Rakka. _He should be covering one of the Cadian brigades,_ I thought moodily. _They're the ones always hogging the headlines, along with the Space Marines._

"What we're gonna need are empty fuel drums, det cord, detergent, and phosphorus grenades. Make sense? Those mortar shells we received, they'll be the cherry topping."

"I thought they were the wrong type," Ehle frowned.

"We'll use them anyway but not in a conventional sense. Sarn't Ranks, can you rig up improvised explosives with RDX and 2-inch?"

"I am familiar with this unconventional method, sir, but the primer does not advise—" the mortar sergeant began before a hard look from Meller made him shut his mouth. "Roger that, sir. We'll get it done."

"Outstanding. Liaise with Sarn't Larn. He'll be providing you with the shells and Comp-C."

"How are going to set this up then, sir?" Corta asked.

Meller held up three fingers. "Three lines of defence. The perimeter, the CP bunker, and finally the prize if Zeke makes it that far. Each line is gonna go up like a Vraksian refinery and provide us with cover while we fall back to prepared positions. Sarn't Ranks, demonstrate."

Ranks took the 2-inch shell I offered him and checked it over briefly. "To fix these up, I'll need to unscrew the fuse, remove it then insert the det cord with a pinch of Composition-C, screwing the fuse back in afterwards and wrapping it up tightly with some wire. It'll be strung back to the detonator and linked together with others." Ranks ran a thumb across the shell's blunt nose. "If these are buried facing outwards in the earth bank just outside the perimeter then they'll make for quite a show. Hmm, I like it…"

"So can you do it?"

"Oh, yes, sir," Ranks nodded enthusiastically. "Those barrels you mentioned, sir. If we fill them with spent brass, nails, bolts, what have you, then we'll have fougasses."

"Foo-what?" I muttered, slightly annoyed Meller had taken credit for my plan and was carrying it away with him on his shoulders.

The scent of excitement now ran through Rakka as word spread of the captain's plan. Throughout the day, whenever the shelling let up, work parties were filling fuel drums with flake soap, brass, screws, and bolts, and were tying WP grenades around the base, ready for eventual ignition. To keep Zeke's heads down, the mortar platoon fired off their last rounds of HE into the trees, finishing off with another smoke bombardment directed at the dead zone, providing concealment for the 2-inch shells to be buried in the earth outside the perimeter. Under Ranks' supervision, I linked up wire after wire of det cord, all trailing into the CP bunker from various points around the perimeter, and ran it down to two detonators Meller had charge of. The wires that connected them would remain free until the last moment. "This one's number two," Ranks said, tapping the second line detonator. "Number one we're leaving with Lieutenant Corta. And number three's our panic button. For if Zeke forces us down here."

Biting his lip, Meller nodded. "These will be a last resort only. Mister Corta will not set his charges off without my authorisation."

"Is that an order, sir?" I asked.

Clapping me on the shoulder, Meller made a pass at a smile. "I'll make sure he knows. Well done, the both of you."

"Sir." Ranks took his leave.

"Good plan you came up with, sir. Maybe they'll give you a gong for it," I said quietly.

"Still want me to write you up for insubordination, Sarn't?"

"I'd rather we let it pass, sir."

"I'll keep my plan. And you'll keep your stripes. Dismissed, Sarn't."

Seething underneath a blank mask of indifference, I trudged back to stores and slumped down on an empty box of grenades, alone in a sulk. The battle, I decided, was only half-fought with Zeke. The other half was fought with the officers. _May all that bear the brass Aquila and silver bars of a gentleman suffer a most undignified, painful death,_ I thought, resting my chin in my cupped hand and glaring at the ground.

Tension hung like a storm cloud over Rakka. As the slow afternoon dragged on many began to grow bored waiting for Zeke to do something. For some, squatting in trenches and bunkers became too much to bear despite the sporadic shelling. A brave gang were soon kicking a worn leather ball around with their feet on the vacant landing zone, sometimes bouncing it off their heads when it was kicked upwards. The kick-about was quickly broken up and the belligerents dispersed by Perandis when he went to investigate the commotion. They weren't quite ready to die for the Emperor yet, I remarked, thinking too that there were still things I wanted to do before a real estate deal hit me.

Skulking inside CQMS's bunker – still alone – I brooded over C-for-Cannon's tactical situation and the disadvantages of remaining within static fortifications whilst Zeke was free to manoeuvre freely outside the wire. Had the idea of aggressive patrolling not crossed Meller's mind? Or was he operating under a strict set of orders expressly forbidding such actions? I worked my fingers together in frustration squeezing them tightly against one another; enough for the skin to turn pink. Meller's blackmail too, threatening to put me on jankers if I did not credit him with the plan made me near-indignant. I had had it with officers, I decided. _Damn their careers and their entitlement_.

The barebones of an idea were laid in my mind as I stared at one of the enemy Kazalaks lying beside the Stovepipe launcher. Of course it would be down to Meller whether or not I could lead a small patrol out beyond the wire once night fell, though even if he forbade it I would do it anyway; alone if I had to.

Curiously, Meller approved the patrol action, scheduling it for 2300, nodding in approval when I stated that I would head east across the road to recce the area for signs of Zeke. He did however warn me about the Marine presence in the downed cruiser – the structure that we had spotted on the journey up to Rakka – and advised not to stray too far to the south-east. It was funny that he chose to warn us about the Marines – technically our allies – and not Zeke. I had never seen an allied Marine before, only enemy. Those I had encountered were over the sights of a .50-Cal, which was the closest I ever wanted to get to them.

Aimo did not meet with the same approval of my plan as Meller had even with the latter's permission making it an official action. "Well I won't try and stop you. But, you know Zeke's out there and…"

"I know. I'll be careful. Just don't fire at us when we're coming in."

"Us? Who else are you taking?" Aimo said in puzzlement.

"You?"

"Can't leave the section here, I've got responsibilities now, mate. You have too."

" _Had_ ," I grunted, "had responsibilities."

Aimo said nothing further on the matter, perhaps believing it wise not to bring up my short stint as 10 Platoon's sergeant. An awkward silence developed. Bafflingly enough it was Molke, the up-and-coming killer who broke it. "Excuse me, Sarn't. I'd like to go."

"Go where?" I gazed long and hard at the lad.

"Out on patrol with you, to see if we can find Zeke."

Scuffing my toe on the ground I shook my head. "Number ten. S'not up to me, Private, I'm not your section leader."

"Well, do you want to go that badly?" Aimo sighed. "You know it'll be dangerous. People get hurt out here…"

"Yeah. They get dead as well." Molke picked up his Kantrael, eager to prove himself.

"Okay. Okay."

"Lose your bangstick first," I said.

"B-but, my service weapon—" Molke peered at it confusedly.

"Muzzle flash will give you away at night."

"There it is. You listen to Sergeant Larn now, Molke. Off you go."

Like a child promised sweets, Molke followed after me. Voices could be heard inside stores. One of which I recognised. "It's that reporter," I muttered.

"Off on patrol?" Joe Herle balanced on an uneven stack of sealed containers holding 40-millimetre cartridges. In his company was one of the young privates' in 12 Platoon whom I remembered from somewhere; Koga was his name. I said nothing in reply. The expectation of the irritated question about why he was still at Rakka was wiped from Herle's face at that.

"I was in the north-east bunker with Sergeant Larn during the first attack," Private Koga said. "Or second – second attack really."

"Kill any Zeke?"

"No. Scared 'em off in the end though."

"And what do you think of the unit's performance during the action?"

"Well uh… we did good yep. Um. We didn't take any casualties I think…"

"Look, mate, can you do your little interrogations somewhere different than my bunker? I'm preparing for patrol." I folded my arms and waited for Herle to vacate his perch.

"I'd like to go," Koga, oddly, piped up. "I'm too wired to sleep. Been sitting still a lot. Got too much energy inside me."

"Perhaps I could tag along?" Herle began only to be deterred by a sharp glance from me.

"Koga, yeah?"

"Yeah, Sergeant."

"Okay, Koga, grab two of those K-As. We're gonna be takin' them along with us."

"Enemy weapons, Sarn't?" Koga looked at the three rifles concernedly. "They might bear an unclean taint."

"I'll risk it. We need them 'cause they've got flash-hiders." I turned to Molke hovering in the background. "Still got my hand grenade?"

"Uh-huh." Molke took the ball-shaped frag from where he'd hooked it onto his belt and showed it to me.

"Got a good arm?"

"Mm-hm."

"Good 'cause I'm gonna need you to start hoiking those like mad if we get contact." I broke open a brand-new crate of grenades and passed the black tubes holding them to Molke. "Take as many as you want."

"D-do I get a rifle?" Molke balked at the notion that he was going on patrol with only hand grenades for personal defence.

"Nah, no thirty-sixes or three-three-eights. Their muzzle flash will give you away and the sound will draw enemy fire." I tapped my ear. "You can tell if it's Zeke or us by the different reports."

"So these rifles will make it seem like Zeke's firing at his own men?" Koga questioned.

"Number one." I nodded. "Hearing K-A fired back at 'em will confuse the hell out of 'em."

"Am I alright now?" Molke asked. The two large front pockets on his flak jacket were bulging with frags.

"Number ten. Leave your flak behind."

"But-but we're under orders to wear them at all times," Molke protested.

"This bootneck crap'll only slow you down if you 'ave to move fast," I said, tugging at the rope ridge on the right shoulder. "When I tell you to move, I want you to _really_ move."

"Zeke won't see us though so…" Koga was already unzipping his body armour. "Besides, what do you want, protection or mobility?"

Molke grumbled something about Cadians as he unclasped the poppers. "Tough shit. We make do without Cadian body armour," I said, unclipping the magazine from my Kazalak and running a thumb over the steel-cased rounds.

"So is this all we get?" Koga waved his sole magazine at me. "What if we get pinned down?"

"You're not gonna be firing more than one mag anyway. If we get contact, we run. No sense stayin' to fight when it's just us."

"But—"

"Be economical. We're not setting up a brass exchange tonight."

"There's bits missing on my rifle," Koga complained, pointing at the naked bolt carrier that should have been hidden by the receiver cover.

"We'll ask Zeke for spares then," I said dryly.

To go with my Kazalak I brought a Castra grenade launcher and a leather bandolier of high-explosive shells along. The stubby weapon would be particularly useful because it produced no muzzle flash and was – in effect – a miniature artillery piece.

"Black as bog now." I grimaced as I worked black camouflage cream over my face, passing the tin to Koga and Molke once I was done. "Don't wanna see no bright white teeth either."

"Is this necess—?"

"Yep," I cut across Molke before he could add to Koga's complaints. "Now jump up and down."

Bemused, the two privates' blinked at me. Both pairs of eyes were bright white in their darkened faces. "Iggery," I added gently. Not surprisingly both produced loud rattles when they jumped. "Lose everything that isn't weapons or ammo. Then double over to your bunks and stuff your shit inside spare pairs of socks and wind 'em tight. Make sure nothing is flapping or rustling as well."

Koga and Molke made no move. "Move it!" I clapped my hands. "Most kosh!"

* * *

By the light of a hurricane lamp, I field-stripped and cleaned my Kazalak whilst waiting for Molke and Koga to return. My curiosity over the rifle's tiny handful of moving parts and general ruggedness was lessened when I turned my hand over and saw the dark red stain underneath the dressing. Loosening after a time, the greyish bandage needed to be replaced fairly frequently else it would grow dirty. _Will it ever heal?_

"I can't hear you, Martti," I said aloud, clenching my hand tightly, feeing dampness seep through the bandage.

Frozen, my head bowed, I glanced up into the distance with a partly-deranged stare and empty eyes. Where my memories of Martti were there was nothing, just a deep blackness that barred me from remembering him with a malevolent, glee that mocked me for not being there to save him. _There it is_. I remembered the feeling of helplessness. That one person could not make a difference in anything. And the overwhelming worry that everything I had done, was doing, and would do, would be for nothing. I felt insignificant again, and was struck with a hollow plaintive fear that I might have been careening down a path to destruction for some time with no way to turn back and save myself.

"…You ready then, Sarn't?" Koga was there suddenly. Lying across the crate I had balanced it on was my Kazalak. It was fully reassembled.

"Get wired," I said mechanically. Forcibly cleansing my head of past memories I became Sarn't again, and picked up my Kazalak.

"You snuffies had better not open up on us when we come back 'cause we're packing enough ordnance to orbit your scrappy little barricade." I aimed a finger at the detachment guarding the main gate threateningly as we passed underneath the barrier.

"You that mad little sarn't that got relieved of command?" someone chuckled. "Got a bit o' bluster on you there."

"Go give Zeke our love, will you?"

"I'll bring you back a Zeke to decorate your gate. How d'you feel 'bout that?" I shot back.

At the junction where the dirt track branched off north and south, I signalled Molke and Koga to spread out. There would be no talking from that point onwards. Beyond the faintest thumps of far-off artillery, the night air was still. Planting the butt of my Kazalak in the mud I crouched and froze. The rustle of Molke and Koga's clothing died away as they waited, listening. Warm air blown from my nose came out in clouds as it touched the chilly air. If Zeke was nearby, I decided, he was being damned quiet for there was not a single rustle, a snore, or a stifled cough. Scratching at the dirt with my heel, I suddenly wondered if CQMS had any anti-vehicle mines in Stores. Too late, I cursed myself, raising a hand and signalling to Molke and Koga to move further east.

The map of the country surrounding Rakka I had studied was extremely basic with only a few contour lines. Such military maps were damnably vague and, more often or not, out of scale. A large hollow in the ground roughly fifty yards east of the road was closer to eighty, if my reckoning was on. Halting at the lip of the rocky slope, I gestured at Molke and Koga to follow me around the hollow, keeping low enough so our heads were beneath the lip. The Marine cruiser was to the south-east, I said reminded myself inwardly. East was the other firebase, Sollenthul. North, hopefully, was Zeke.

Periodic flashes lit up the eastern horizon, the reports reaching our ears a moment later. _Sollenthul?_ I froze, gripping my Kazalak tightly when I heard the drumroll of big guns. Koga, behind me, was staring at the east, his eyes wide, his expression rigid. Molke, tightly-wound and nervous, opened his mouth, making a small _Oh_.

 _Perfect_ , _their attention's on the east._ I began to move forwards, minding where I put my feet so as not to shake free loose rocks. A crumble followed by a thump of rock on rock stopped my heart. Peering back over my shoulder I saw Koga was looking back straight at Molke who was wincing. Not having the same mindfulness as we had, Molke had put a foot wrong and caused a small pile of rocks to dislodge from the slope. The sound was painfully audible. _That's torn it,_ I snarled silently. Hardly daring to breathe, the three of us remained low and still, straining our ears to hear any nearby commotion.

 _Nothing, let's go._ I beckoned behind for Koga to follow. A faint buzzing was now irritating my right ear. Sticking a finger inside the hole, I wiggled it but the buzz continued obstinately.

" _Hey!_ " Koga called softly.

Signalling him to keep his voice down, I backtracked to where Koga squatted. He gave me a concerned look and pointed over the crest of the rise. _Go check._ I pointed at him then at the crest.

Koga shook his head and looked glumly at the ground.

 _Bloody well get up there_ , I waved my hand furiously. Wondering what was happening Molke shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Without access to any longarm he looked quite forlorn. Koga meanwhile, and with great reluctance, began to edge up to the crest, worming upwards on his belly, hauling his Kazalak along beside him. Almost immediately I regretted ordering Koga up there. Two steps from hauling him back down though, Koga returned. He held up two fingers. _Two men_.

 _Only two?_ I glared. _What were two men doing out here by themselves?_

" _Twenty,_ Koga whispered.

Nodding, I swept a hand across my chest. _Fall back_.

Koga was breathing faster now, his heartbeat was quickening. He was getting excited. _Okay, calm down_ , I motioned. _Now_ _lead off_ , I signalled to Molke who scrambled back the way we had come, the relief plain on his face.

 _Slowly_ I made to signal but Molke's back was turned.

"Molke!" Koga called out.

"Ssh!" I hissed. _Speed and caution_ , I pumped a clenched fist up and down. Koga already understood and tapped me on the shoulder and got on after Molke. In our haste more stones were shaken loose, creating tiny avalanches of rock that rattled loudly in their rapid descent to the gully below. _If they haven't heard us yet they will have now_.

Molke was frozen on his knees, something having halted his headlong flight.

"Slow it down there, fella," Koga gasped, falling down beside him.

"He's pissing," Molke said weakly.

"What?" I climbed across Molke and peered about the outcrop Molke was hiding behind. Above us, perched on a steep lip, a man stood. Silhouetted against the night sky, his beret worn wonkily on his head, he pissed leisurely over the edge, the uninterrupted stream splashing our route back to Rakka.

"Wait 'til he's done," I murmured. As we waited, the man in the wonky beret began singing.

 _Doesn't he know how close he is to Rakka?_ I fumed.

"Patience." Koga reassured Molke who was fidgeting uncontrollably.

 _Come on, you bastard. Bloody shift it_. I watched the man continue to urinate without a care in the world. Koga's eight-inch bayonet was in his hands. Giving it one glance, I shook my head. _Put it away._ The man was out of reach. We just had to sit tight and wait.

Once the splashing had ended, the man made a great showing of fumbling for his trouser buttons. When he could not properly button up he left the last few and stumbled away. Was he drunk? I wondered. What sort of army were we facing?

With myself leading once more I led my party gradually upwards and out of the gully. Whether it was some sixth sense on my behalf, or just plain luck, I halted before the open ground and peered out, wary of any other Zekes wandering around in the dark.

"Oh, shit," Koga muttered behind me.

I had been right to err on the side of caution.

"Is that…?" Molke gaped.

Swallowing, I nodded grimly. We were no more than twenty feet from a small unit of Zekes. They were lounging about chatting in low tones, sitting idly without even bothering to dig in for the night. _Cultists,_ I recognised the lack of proper cohesion and general disorderly appearance. No real military unit would act so lackadaisical in the combat zone. Yet for a scratch-force of drug-addled lunatics they had been surprisingly quiet in moving into position between us and Rakka without us hearing.

"What do we do?" Koga asked. He looked far more composed now and was as calm-looking as any professional soldier.

"Follow me," I said. My plan was simple. I prayed such audacity would carry us through safely back home. Act as we belong. In the dark we would pass ourselves off as mercenaries.

By rights a quaking fear should have been gripping me then. But in the moment all I felt was a strange tranquillity, giving pause to my pace. I imagined Koga and Molke trembling as they moved through the cultists. Their footsteps were uninterrupted though. Nobody challenged us.

"Alright?" I greeted a cultist I passed by who was eyeing me with little more than mild interest. Resting his shaved head in his hand the cultist nodded sleepily. All he saw was the rifle I carried, and my face.

Leading Koga and Molke southwards for a short distance, I waved at them to consolidate with me once the cultists were far enough away.

"So are we surrounded now?" Molke asked.

"Quiet." I raised a fist. The sound of motor vehicles was coming from the north. "Hide."

Hugging the ground, I watched the shapes of three guntrucks roll across the uneven ground. Deliberately avoiding the road, they were heading cross-country to recce the south of Rakka.

"They're gonna work out soon just how isolated we are," I said aloud, scampering in the direction of Rakka once the guntrucks had faded away into the night. Cut off and surrounded. _Not good odds._

We saw no further signs of Zeke on the journey back to Rakka. Pausing for what I hoped was the last time I laid down on the ground and searched for the firebase's silhouette against the sky.

"There. Just about to our left," Koga whispered. He was also lying prone.

 _Good lad_ , I thought approvingly. Koga was shaping up nicely. I was starting to think he might pull through alright, more likely than Molke would anyway.

A loud metallic _pop_ preceded a moment of perfect silence. Then the land exploded in front of us. I came to on my knees with my shoulders sagging and staring at the shower of earth that was covering my jacket and trousers. Overcome with a wooziness and a temptation to fall asleep where I knelt, I lifted my lolling head up from where it rested on my chest and called out to the others in a slurred tone. "Molke?" My fingers searched around for my fallen Kazalak, coming into contact with the cold steel that was half-buried in the earth.

"Ho!" Molke's gasp came from my right. He was on his knees too in a similar daze. One hand was pressed down on his left ear.

"Koga?" I spat out phlegm mixed with mud. A star cluster flare was popped and five glowing green balls of fireworks _swooshed_ up and sparkled down. The signal for friendly patrol returning had come too late.

"Oh, you bloody fools. Bloody, bloody, bloody fools." I saw Koga's body lying ten feet to my left. Rolling him over, I felt at his wrist then at his neck for a pulse. Nothing; no beat. He was gone.

 _Blue-on-blue. KIA. Wasted in the name of the Emperor._

"…We did this." Molke collapsed beside Koga.

"Help me carry him back." I thrust Koga's Kazalak into Molke's weak arms. "Take his legs."

The snuffies on gate duty grinned and gave us a thumbs-up when we staggered past the ten-foot tall, sandbagged gatehouse. "Look, he's brought us back a Zeke. Can we string him up on the wire, Corp?" one of them asked cheerily.

Neither Molke nor I spoke on our trek to Cain Med, the both of us numb with shock. Though I remained outwardly stoic there was a sick feeling in my stomach couple with a lingering guilt over Koga's death. The blame would land squarely on me for Koga was my responsibility; in my care.

"Where's he hit?" Ral Bleak asked as he helped hoist Koga onto a low table.

"Don't know," I mumbled, staring blankly at Koga.

"What do you mean you don't know?" Ral retorted angrily, working hastily to unbutton Koga's jacket. "You're the sarn't, you oughta know! Was he shot?"

"Can't help him."

" _No_ ," Ral breathed, feeling the absence of a pulse on Koga's limp wrist. "His jacket's been shredded. Has he taken shrapnel?"

"Some Twelve Platoon snuffy zipped Koga with a forty-mil as we were coming back from patrol."

"Shit." Feverish now, Ral undid Koga's undershirt and pulled it away from his chest. Grey holes, closer to slits, were marked in Koga's upper torso. Ral's hands fell onto the tabletop. Slowly, eyes heavy with grief, Ral looked up at me. "Took it straight to the heart. Nothing there to stop it but skin and bone."

I said nothing. I couldn't say anything that would make the situation better. Only worse.

Taking a deep breath, Ral said, "if he'd had his flak, he might have lived."

Molke was sitting in a corner curled up with his arms tightly folded. He had not said a word.

"Why wasn't he wearing it?" Ral asked softly.

"'Cause I told him not to," I replied.

Ral let the silence hang for a moment. "Captain will want to see this."

"Gotta give him my report," I said gruffly. "Keep Molke here, he doesn't want to be moved."

Captain Meller took the bad news as expected, with a stern assuredness. The fact that we were now being circumvented with alarming ease by the mercenaries' mobile force did not seem to perturb Meller. Neither did the firefight over at Sollenthul which Meller confirmed was ongoing as he had heard it over the local net. Sollenthul was requesting reinforcements, in a similar predicament as we were now. "All present and accounted for, Sarn't?" he asked once I had finished.

"Sir?"

"Any casualties?"

A knot was forming in my stomach. "One KIA, sir," I said after a hesitation.

Meller blinked. "One KIA?"

"There was an incident, sir," I looked away, unable to meet his eye. "We were fired on by mistake by Twelve Platoon on our way back in."

"Show me." Meller was on his feet, tugging on his flak jacket in an instant. "After you, Sarn't."

Ral had covered Koga with a waterproof sheet when I led Meller into the dugout.

"This the man?" Meller pointed at the shape underneath the sheet.

"Yes, sir. Private…" Ral did not know the man's name.

"Koga," I said.

"Find the men who had charge of Twelve Platoon's Castra's. I want to know who fired on this man," Meller said bluntly, replacing the sheet over Koga's face. "Cause?"

"Shrapnel to the heart, sir. It was a Castra. Private Koga was killed instantly. He was not wearing body armour," Ral said flatly. "The NCO in command of the patrol did not enforce their wear."

Meller nodded but made no comment. Word was sent to Lieutenant Corta, and the Castra operator was found and sent down to Cain Med. A tired, jumpy, babyface who had been trusted with the Castra only because it was his turn looked on the verge of having a nervous breakdown when he saw the body on the table. Clapping both hands over his mouth, the babyface babbled, "I – I thought they were Zeke. They were Zeke."

"Can you explain why you opened fire with the Castra you were equipped with?" Meller said gently. Folding his arms, he perched on the edge of the table and awaited the babyface's explanation.

"I – I saw two, uh, three figures. Two of them were carrying odd rifles. Not like ours. K-As I think. Zeke uses them. Not us. It couldn't be us? Why would we be using Zeke weapons?" the babyface's lower lip wobbled. "They – my section leader told me to use frags or grenade launchers at night instead of rifles, so I fired a round from my Castra to scare them off."

"Were passwords exchanged?"

"No. I didn't want them to get too close in case they were Zeke. I just did as I was told." The babyface hung his head in shame. "It's my fault, sir. I'm so sorry."

"You did as you were told, Private. That is all for now. Dismissed."

With the private gone, Meller spoke to me. "CP, Sarn't."

Anticipating the judgment that was about to befall me, I followed Meller back over to the CP. He wasted no time in calling Perandis in from 10 Platoon. "Enemy weapons in your possession and no worn flak jackets, Sarn't." Meller's tone was not one of condescension. There was no bite to it. He sounded weary and above all disappointed. "Now, I can punish the private for opening fire on unidentified personnel – a foolish mistake other ranks can be prone to make. Or I can choose to take action against a non-commissioned officer who _should_ have known better than to take such extreme risks as to carry and expect to operate enemy firearms in this area of operations. A private soldier is permitted to slip up because it is expected that he learn from his mistake so as to not make the same error again. A sergeant cannot _ever_ commit such an error for he is expected – _required_ – to know better because he has control over soldiers' lives and must never, ever take such risks that result in easily avoidable deaths because he made a bad decision. Do you understand? Does that make sense, Private?"

The shock hit me then. An intense ringing in my ears blotted out Meller's next words. They were not words I wanted to hear though as Perandis came forwards, a bayonet in his hands. Both pairs of stripes on my shoulders came off, the stitching severed, leaving only small traces of black thread where the rank insignia had been. My tongue had stuck to the roof of my mouth, it was so dry.

"You can no longer take straight duty in my company, Private. I do not want you in my company any more. I can say only that I am incredibly sad and disappointed that things turned out this way, for I do not believe that you are a bad soldier. But you have forced me to take action. And now I will. Staff Sergeant, escort Private Larn to the Pen."

"Yes, sir." Perandis' hand hovered over his holstered sidearm whilst he waited for me to move.

"I could have you escorted to the Pen under arms, Private. But I won't," Meller said sadly. "Please remove your weapons and ammunition and lay them on the table before you go."

I had no words to say to the NCO or officer as I laid down my arms. I just turned my back on Meller and walked out of the CP, wishing I was free. I could feel my world fragmenting, collapsing in on itself. And I was all of my own doing. With terrible bitterness in my heart I admitted that I was the sole cause of my gradual descent down the winding path to destruction.


	25. Chapter 24

**Rakka, the Pen**

My numb, cold body was glued to the uncomfortable ground, and had been like that for many hours, frozen in the same position, draining the life out of my limbs. Two bright gold eyes glared at me from the black depths of a hood, startling me from the half doze I was falling into. Scrabbling around in the interior of the Pen, I saw shafts of light poking through the gaps in the walls and roof. I realised I was in others' company. The Zeke prisoners, the father and son I had sealed away inside the lightless dugout, were sitting in the opposite corner of the Pen. It was only the father that was keeping an eye on me. The son's head was resting on his father's shoulder.

"Wha' you doing?" I felt the walls blindly, unsure of my surroundings.

"Making sure you don't hurt yourself," the older Tabor said. "You were fidgeting in your sleep. Muttering too. Saying names."

"…No." I stuck my hand out, leaning on the wall for support. "D-don't. I weren't saying nothing," I said through clenched teeth, jabbing a finger at the Tabor.

"What did Izuru Numerial do to you?"

Falling back down from a dead leg, I waved my finger, intending to lash out verbally, but found the words would not come. "Don't you bloody dare!" I managed eventually after a series of splutters.

"Dad?" the younger Tabor had awoken. "Who's that?"

"Something's bothering you, son. I know how young lads like you tick. There's something on your chest. Something you can't shake off."

"Look at you!" I glared at the son. "You-you-you, you're a bloody child. You should be at home!"

"Peter's not your worry, son. You're fighting with something inside."

"You're an old fool," I spat, laughing harshly.

"Something's happened if they've put you in here. Why aren't you a sergeant anymore?"

Making a face, I stretched my legs out and sat with my back to the wall. "The stickie, Izuru, she-she-she's a nightmare. She saved me life – brought me back to life – I don't, I don't know. I can't keep her from invading me mind." I rested my head in my hands. "She haunts me. She's in me dreams. She doesn't do anything, just watches me. Like a – like a guardian angel but—but some twisted mockery of it."

The Tabor sat still and said nothing, thinking over my words all the while. "You need to sort out your issues with her or this will be perpetual for you."

"Hah!" I snorted. "I can't – I can't go out there. It's infested with Zeke. Can't even leave this room. You-you and all the Tabors and cultists, you're all blind fools, wandering to the slaughter like dumb livestock."

"You can't hide from this, son. That which lingers on the edge of your mind, what troubles you, is between you and her." The Tabor eyed me steadily. "From what I could tell, Izuru trusts you enough to guarantee that Peter and I would be treated fairly by your people."

"…you don't understand," I groaned, turning my head away and burying it in the crook of my arm.

Sharp pops of rifle fire began. It was not on the base though but further away. Following it was the slow, laboured thud of Rekyls. "I pray we all make it through this alive." The Tabor gripped his son's hand and squeezed.

* * *

 **Hill 558, 08:17**

"Again!" Olen Azar took his finger off the trigger of his Rekyl and waited as Weld poured the last drops of water from his canteen over the Rekyl's smoking barrel.

"That's all I've got." Weld pressed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and screwed the lid of his canteen back into place. "No more barrels too."

For the last few hours the cultists had changed their tactics. Instead of rushing pell-mell into the sights of the defenders they had flattened themselves and were using the grass, several inches tall, and the dead bodies to cover their advance, bellying upwards in smaller, platoon-sized groups, working their way to within grenade range. Often only their faces were visible so that was where Azar and the others shot them. So many cultists were joining their comrades from the previous day, most with neat grey holes in their forehead from where the grunts. Azar could tell between the rifle, lasgun, and Rekyl kills because it was only the latter that blew heads apart completely in a spray of pink mist. There were many like that with entry wounds as messy as exit wounds. To mark up such a tally was elating. Forget his struggle with Breezy Gale and the obnoxious cooks, Azar was finding that he preferred the infantry, a role he had deliberately avoided before so as not to get lost amongst the ranks. He felt a savage pride at his natural talent on a Rekyl gun.

Awaiting the next thrust, Azar lined up his Rekyl's sights when a head came into view. Squeezing the trigger, he waited for the crack and the kick of the butt in his shoulder. Nothing happened.

"Problem?" Weld, wide-eyed, waited beside him with a magazine.

"Dunno," Azar worked the charging handle back and forth and tried again; nothing. Removing the magazine he saw there were still rounds left to feed. The chamber was clear. No jammed cartridge was stuck up the barrel.

"Barrel might've warped?" Weld suggested.

Azar tapped the barrel with his fingertips. It was warm but not blisteringly hot. "I think the firing pin might've melted."

"Fix bayonets?" Weld looked around for Gale but found everyone was too busy working their pieces to notice.

"Nah, leave off." Azar picked up his M-36 and passed it under the Rekyl to Weld. "I'll tell Corp. You hold this sector."

"Can't be helped," the corporal said inbetween snapping off shots with his .338. "Any extra ammo, take it over to my gunners on the right flank. I'll shave off two riflemen there to buff the left flank."

Spent magazines were scattered about on the trench floor underneath Azar's useless Rekyl amongst a sea of spent brass. Azar could find only three full magazines, including the near-empty magazine that was still sitting in the gun. "Not got much to give here," Azar shouted to the corporal when he came back with the ammo.

"Take 'em along anyway!"

An object with a long, thin handle cartwheeled inside the trench, landing at the corporal's feet. A stampede began when the smoking object was revealed to be a stick grenade. Completely unperturbed, the corporal leant down and reached for the grenade, picking it up and throwing it back. "Cheeky bastards," he said, returning fire at where the hidden thrower was. Almost immediately the grenade, or another one, came back, thumping Azar in the chest. It was him who retrieved it this time and launched it back, much to the corporal's approval. "Oi, good lad. Fancy another jog down to Rakka?"

Azar nodded eagerly. "Stupid Zeke can't shoot straight anyhow."

"Okay, tell Captain our situation—"

"W-what is our situation?"

"Tell Captain we'll hold till the last round. See what he says. While you're down there, grab a shotgun from Stores too."

"A shotgun?"

"Accatran twelve-gauge oughta do it. Good for shooting grenades out of the air."

"Right." Azar deposited his magazines with the other Rekyl gun then took off down to Rakka. The morning was wearing on. The sun was up and poking through the clouds. It should have been a nice, spring day if not for the rounds snapping at Azar's heels. Whether they were all aimed or simply strays was up for debate.

 _Oh hell,_ Azar glimpsed an uneven line of Zekes assembling for the next assault on Rakka just short of the treeline. Much further over to the east before, it looked like they would be using the road to carry themselves over the firebase's perimeter. _Those poor sods are gonna catch a packet_. _Better them than me._

* * *

 **Rakka**

The high-pitched whistling of 82-millimetre mortar rounds falling began the day's action. In his command post, Mik Meller leant over his map, listening to the tremendous thuds and wallops going on outside. It came as no surprise that the mercenaries were finding ways to bypass Rakka. Shrewdly though, they were averse to having an active firebase in their rear which could cause trouble for their support element when they eventually showed. The real worry would come when a two, or even three-pronged attack was organised to envelop the flanks and strike from the rear. Hill 558 was still holding though, Meller thought, drumming his fingers on the narrow contours that marked the slopes of 558.

"Permission to enter?" the runner from before stood in the doorway.

"Come." Meller recognised the solid little cook turned grunt, Olen Azar. "How's the OP, Private?"

"Sir. Corporal says we will hold till our last round." Azar stood at attention. "Zeke's coming in groups of thirty. He's crawling up on us, trying to grenade our positions."

"The corporal in charge will withdraw only once the last round is spent and all power packs are drained. Does that make sense, Private?"

"Yes, sir. Also, the corporal has put in a request for a twelve-gauge. Zeke's getting closer to an assault."

"You have your bayonets?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. You may procure an Accatran from Stores. Sign for it later."

"Thank you, sir."

Azar tore across Rakka, hiding inside dugouts and trenches whenever the squeal of the mortars split the air. To his bemusement there was still no-one manning Stores, leaving it open for any sod to walk in and take what they pleased. Realising he had the run of a lot of unattended, and usually off-limits, equipment, Azar was overjoyed. Here was any old soldier's dream of a perfect piece of thievery. It was too good to be true. With trembling hands, Azar searched through the racks of spare M-36 Kantraels and IM LARs. Let the dumb grunts have the lasguns and rifles, Azar wanted something more. It came in the form of three .45 Lectas, hidden away in a trunk buried right in the back of the dugout close to the company quartermaster sergeant's bunk. Perfect, and just for him. Easing one of the worshippers from its wooden rack, Azar checked it and found it grease-free and perfectly oiled; blessed by the Omnissiah too no doubt. Eagerly stuffing as many stick and drum magazines into their carriers, Azar hoisted the Lecta on his shoulder and made to leave. He resented being forced to give up his previous Lecta, a weapon he'd had to work hard to get whilst on Nemesis Tessera, to Larn; the monkey-faced ratbag. Though Larn had eventually returned the weapon unfired it did not make Azar like him more. He remembered the baby-faced NCO asking whether he still wanted to battle before evacuating the xenos ship. Back then Azar would have meekly backed down. But now though, with Azar asserting himself, the answer would be a solid affirmative; let's throw some hands.

With one foot out of the door Azar remembered his mission given to him by the corporal. The sharp reminder was enough to send him stumping back inside to look for a shotgun. Having no particular preference, or like for the things, Azar picked up the first that came to hand. It was not an Accatran, rather a cheap automatic with scratched wooden furniture and the barrel sawed off just in front of the handgrip. Not bothering to check if they were the right type or not, Azar looped a leather bandolier of blue shells over his shoulder and fled from the dugout. Amidst the whistle of the mortars, Azar heard a shrill _toot_ of a whistle. He dismissed it. Rakka was not his problem. Only Olen Azar was his problem.

* * *

Bracing the wire stock of his Wex machine pistol against his hip, Lysell Talvera thumped the dome of his tightly-fastened helmet with his fist and strode to the forefront of the vanguard. Awaiting the order to attack down the road, the throng of Rangers and cultists watched the commander expectantly. Eschewing vehicles – only three guntrucks were circling around in the rear to provide mobile fire support – the assault was aimed along the road that was now blocked by the pair of derelict guntrucks. A mechanised assault would fail as it did the previous day, Talvera guessed. There was not enough open ground north of the firebase to manoeuvre the trucks and take full advantage of their mobility. A concentrated thrust on foot might be enough to carry them close enough to the guntruck wreckage and use them as cover for the next hurdle; the base itself. Though confident of the enemy's eventual defeat, Talvera was aware that every offensive move he made was a risky gamble.

Filling his lungs with air, Talvera swept back his arm in a sweeping gesture then flung it forwards, screaming, "CHARGE!" Marcos Hassid gave one harsh blast of his whistle, signalling the assault's commencement. Obeying the simple command, the cultists broke ranks almost instantly, surging forwards, rifles and lasguns crackling. Behind the assault, .30-calibre stubbers mounted on the beds of the guntrucks opened up, spitting out continuous streams of lead aimed at the firebase.

"Stay in line!" Talvera shouted, gripping his Wex in both hands and following in the scattered wake of the cultists. To his right and a little behind, Hassid was corralling the slower cultists into makeshift skirmish lines, attempting to get them to advance with the mercenaries' comparatively disciplined waves inbetween snapping off optimistic shots with a Krug .50-calibre automatic pistol. Hearing the sustained rattle of a .30-Cal, Talvera glanced right and saw Kemmet was there armed with an IM stubber held from the hip, a stained bandage wrapped around his head underneath his beret, covering one eye. _Okay?_ Talvera nodded and both men halted to cover the cultists. Shouldering the Wex, Talvera's vision blurred as smoke and cartridges shot in a stream from the ejection port. His ears were deafened by the noise. From the corner of his eye, Kemmet was kneeling, firing his section automatic at the enemy trenches.

A queer report quite unlike a rifle shot cut through the cacophony of battle just then. Talvera dimly heard and felt too the supersonic crack of the Ranger's precious lascannon when it's beam fired over his head. It damn-near permanently deafened him, or so he thought.

Ben Elsh, Danz, along with Kemmet, Hassid and himself were trying to enforce some sort of order to the attack, but it had quickly devolved into a mob rush. The cultists were so difficult to lead effectively, Talvera fumed inside as he leap-frogged forwards with the skirmish lines over the ruts and bumps of the road. Enemy sharpshooters were picking off individual cultists every second, dropping them like they were nothing. The wind that was tugging at his smock and trousers was actually rounds flying through the air, a testimony to the enemy's marksmanship. The irony of it all hit Talvera when he dropped to one knee to open fire. He had mistakenly identified the enemy as third-rate washouts, and cited his own force as a clear-cut superior example of how a modern unit should operate. But dismounted, and forced into an infantry role, it was clear the imperials had effortlessly denied the Rangers their biggest advantage. This was turning fast into attrition. Neither side was making gains.

Pumping the trigger of his Wex, Talvera felt the parts inside click on an empty magazine. _Shit,_ he swore. Thirty yards up the road, the most aggressive cultists had reached the two guntrucks. Like the fanatical crazies they were though, none chose to use either vehicle as cover, presenting themselves as easy targets for the enemy's rifles and automatics. Sinh, the first Ranger to reach cover, was exhorting the few cultists still standing to seek shelter when he was knocked to one side by a round striking him in the elbow. Impossible to tell whether it was aimed or stray, the round travelled up his arm and exited his right shoulder, completely destroying the bone and forcing fragments upwards that ripped through the flesh on his shoulder, instantly soaking it in blood. Ignored by the single-minded cultists, Sinh slumped against the charred, crumpled metal and became still.

With the loud crack of rounds banging on the blackened metal closeby, Talvera huddled in a small trough behind the guntrucks with Hassid, Kemmet, Danz, Elsh, and a few cultists. "Is he breathing?" Talvera asked of Sinh.

"No, my captain." Danz said, ripping the leather cord of Sinh's tags from around his neck.

"Maybe we try further left. Find some cover in those mounds and dig in, huh?" Hassid suggested. His considerable form was forcing him to hunch over tightly so as to grant concealment from the enemy's eyes. "Bring the men forwards in twos and threes for a later assault?"

Talvera glanced at those with him and the rest who were now huddling in the dips beside the road to try and stay out of the enemy's line of sight. The numbers were lacking. Shaking his head, he shouted in Hassid's ear, "it's not enough. This is not enough."

"Are we disengaging then?"

"That would be the best course of action. Kemmet, cover our retreat. And make sure you get out yourself! Sinh's coming with us."

Resting his automatic on the flank of the overturned guntruck, Kemmet straightened the metal links in the belt and began working the weapon. "Get going!"

"Okay, let's go!" Talvera ushered the cultists and rangers away from the guntrucks. Hassid's whistle blew three times, signalling the rest to begin the retreat.

"Retreat! Retreat!" Talvera broke cover and danced backwards, gesturing madly for the idle cultists to move themselves. Sticking to the middle of the road, he heard rounds smack into the ground at his feet and whiz around him.

"Lysell!" Hassid had picked up an IM Rifle dropped by a fleeing cultist and snapped off several shots, crying out as he did for Talvera to run. "Get out of there!"

Sticking fingers in his mouth, Talvera whistled loudly for Kemmet who had paused briefly in laying down his covering fire. Dragging his stubber clear from the twisted metal, Kemmet doubled over to his commander and followed him down from the road to where Hassid was hunkered down; enemy fire pursuing them all the while.

"We try from the south now. Give the lads some room to manoeuvre the trucks," Talvera panted.

"The high ground is more important, Lysell," Hassid replied. "We sweep it clear first."

"Agreed. You—" Talvera never finished. Scrambling after the Rangers, the three were several feet apart from one another. Turning back to check they were not being pursued, Talvera gasped when what felt like a burning hammer punched him above the right hip. For the briefest moment he carried on unfazed then the space inside his ribcage was on fire. Agony surged through his body, rising higher and higher into his right shoulder. Bone splintered and broke apart, turning his arm into deadweight. Clapping a hand over his side, Talvera staggered for a further two steps and, with sagging knees, slowly collapsed.

"MEDIC!" Hassid rushed to Talvera's aid, swiftly hoisting him across his shoulders. Kemmet, stunned momentarily, crouched protectively in front of them. A guntruck sped forwards to meet them, braking hurriedly and presenting its flank to the enemy. The gunner manning the mounted stubber added to Kemmet's fusillade. Seeing the commander wounded by enemy fire made him livid. Every round fired at the enemy now had hate guiding them.

On the edge of consciousness, Talvera was placed in the passenger seat, being held in place by Hassid. At the latter's word, the driver forced the pedal to the floor and roared away, leaving Kemmet to make the retreat on foot. _We have a disaster on our hands,_ Hassid thought grimly as he was bumped and jolted by the driver's frantic pace. _Such losses will only sour the cultist's morale, and raise the enemy's._ Gripping Talvera by his good shoulder, Hassid bid his friend hold on.

Talvera was fully unconscious when he was lifted from the guntruck, placed on a stretcher and carried away to a wide clearing that was marked for casualties. Many cultists were waiting their turn to be seen to. More and more rangers were joining them as well, waiting for the battalion's three man medical unit to give them treatment.

"Make way!" Hassid barked at the standing files as he led the stretcher through. "Officer coming through!" Grumbles from the disgruntled cultists reached his ears nonetheless.

Anton Maevich, overworked, and with his hands and white apron soaked in blood, wordlessly handed out field dressings to any walking wounded, swiftly sending them on their way if they did not move fast enough. "Captain took a round," Hassid said. "He needs surgery right now."

"Take him round the back of the tents. Feild or Zeynek will see to him," Maevich droned.

"Are they operating?" Hassid asked.

"Uh, I don't know. Might have to throw whoever it is out."

Conscious of the subtle increase in chatter from the cultists in regards to Talvera, Hassid brought the stretcher around to the rear of the two adjoining tents. "Put the captain down here," he instructed the two stretcher-bearers. "Leave."

In seclusion now, Hassid removed Talvera's helmet and tossed it away. Was his beret still in his pocket? The red cover with the Cyrric Ranger flash was Talvera's life. He would be extremely put out if anything happened to it. Laid out under cover of a groundsheet next to Talvera were the shapes of seven bodies, all of them Rangers. No such respect had been offered to the cultist dead, all of which having been left out in the field. Hassid wondered whether that was the right way to go about it. The uneasy alliance between the Rangers and the cultists was strained as it was. Bar the voices from the queuing Rangers and cultists it was a surprisingly peaceful day. The sun was shining through the treetops, nothing was buzzing around in the air, nor was artillery constantly hurtling overhead. Through the bushes a sentry slowly paced the perimeter.

A flap of tent cloth and one of the surgeons, Zeynek, ducked underneath the opening, shaking his hands in the air. Seeing Talvera, he nodded immediately. "We're just finishing up an op. The captain will be on the table next, sir."

"Good. He took a round to the—" Hassid began.

"We'll see once we have him on the table," Zeynek said brusquely. "You know, Lieutenant, we are not equipped appropriately to deal with casualties from attrition. Our supplies will not last at this rate."

"But you have sufficient supplies for now?" Hassid rose from beside Talvera.

"For now." Zeynek wiped his hands on his apron. "There was a bit of trouble earlier, uh…"

"What kind of trouble?" Hassid frowned.

"Just some cultists giving us grief because they thought our Rangers were being given priority for treatment."

"And what did you say?"

"I told them whoever is next in line will be treated."

"Alright. You tell them what they want to hear."

Zeynek nodded, taking out a cigar from his pocket and sticking it in his mouth. "It's tense out there. It's just one wrong word and…"

"Yeah. You don't do that whilst you're operating, do you?"

"Hmph. Of course not. The taste of it calms me downs is all," Zeynek said, tucking the cigar back inside a case of eight. "Excuse me."

 _He'd better hurry up_ , Hassid worried. Talvera was still unconscious but he hadn't passed yet. _Tough old stick_.

Zeynek came back quickly. "Now then."

"Gently." Hassid helped carry Talvera through the flap and inside the operating theatre. "Hullo, Feild. Captain Talvera took a bullet. Can you 'elp?"

"Do our best," Feild, Zeynek's assistant, pulled off a plastic glove and rubbed his eyes. "Do not worry, Lieutenant."

Lifting Talvera onto the table, Hassid stepped back and waited for the diagnosis.

"Right side, above the hip, and it looks like the round stayed in one piece too. It's lodged in the right shoulder. Captain Talvera shall be out of action for weeks."

"It can be fixed?" Grateful, Hassid folded his arms.

"Yes, we just need to ensure that no scraps of cloth were driven inside the body. Some privacy please."

"Of course."

A commotion at the front of the tents drew Hassid's attention. Raised voices, louder than before, were trying to shout over one another. _Discipline is fracturing now that the commander is down,_ Hassid thought with a sinking heart. Throwing open the tent flap, Hassid found Ben Elsh trying to calm down thick gangs of cultists that had broken from their ordered files. The cultists appeared to be on the verge of coming to blows with the smaller number of Rangers, the latter having formed their own gang too. "What the hell's going on here?" Hassid said in Elsh's ear.

Propping his folding-stock Kazalak against his hip, Elsh replied, "they think we are prioritising the mercenaries over them. They think it's unfair. They want to be treated equally." Shrugging, Elsh muttered, "this war's not fair and they're complaining about this?"

"Right, form—" Hassid's voice was drowned out by the irate cultists who began shoving the Rangers provocatively, baiting them to have a go. A scrap was imminent. Since shouting was useless Hassid blew his whistle but that too failed to make the cultists listen. The pushing and insult-trading suddenly turned nasty when a cultist in a leather jerkin and a cap with ear flaps produced a short shiv and lunged forwards, slicing a Ranger on his arm. Barking in pain, the ranger fell back, carried away by his friends who squawked in outrage. Blood was coming now. Pulling his Krug from his hip holster, Hassid pointed the chromed handgun into the air and fired a shot. "BACK IN LINE!" The deep clap turned many heads in his direction. Now they were taking him seriously. To Ben Elsh Hassid ordered guards posted and gave them authority to break up any scuffles in the meantime. There could be no breakdown in discipline, not whilst the enemy still held the base and the high ground. Corralling the cultists seemed to be his main task now, Hassid reflected as he helped organise the mob into an ordered body once again. But even that was debatable now with Talvera out. Command now fell on his shoulders. It was not a position he felt he was ready for. Not under those circumstances.

Ducking back inside the dim tent, Hassid saw Zeynek lying on the floor. Did he fall asleep? Hassid looked down on him with disgust. "Feild?" Hassid's fingers found the flap of his holster and opened it when he saw the other surgeon was lying on the opposite side of the table in the same position as Zeynek. A slow, creeping dread began to eat at Hassid. Touching the grey Talvera's wrist, he could find no pulse. He had never even heard a sound.

"Elsh!" he called, his anger rising.

Elsh's mouth made a little round hole of astonishment when he saw the scene. "I never even—"

"—heard a sound, no. Neither did I." Hassid balled a fist and beat it against his thigh. "Xenos swine."

"Xenos?" Elsh looked fearful. "Was it… her?"

"Give me your weapon." Hassid took Elsh's K-A and snapped the stock into place. "Have everyone stand to."

"Where are you going, sir?"

Hassid rushed from the tents, hurtling past the seven dead Rangers over to where he had seen the sentry last. No joy. The Ranger tasked with patrolling the north flank was also lying face down, lifeless in the grass. _How did she do it?_ Squatting down,Hassid despaired, feeling a quivering rage overtake him. The man's weapon was gone and his pouches were rifled. As with Talvera there was not a mark on his body, at least from a cursory check. Without stripping and performing a body-wide examination there was simply no way of telling.

Covering his mouth with his hand, Hassid scratched his goatee, wondering what to do. Poor Anton Maevich was now their sole medical staff, and he did not have a surgeon's training. That filthy, underhand, xenos bitch had hurt them terribly in the long run, far more than any imperial guard unit ever had before. Sighing, Hassid gave the faintest shake of his head, asking himself why Talvera had trusted her, even if had only been for a short while. Stickies females were allegedly prettier than human women, all of them combined. Hassid would see to it that this one would never be pretty again once he was finished with her. However thoughts of violent revenge were interrupted when Hassid recognised a sound he had not heard in a long time: tank tracks. The faintest roar of V12 engines and the squeak of track links carried to his ears. _Well it's about damn time_ , Hassid felt a grim satisfaction. Revenge had come in an armoured wave of grinding tracks and black smoke.

* * *

Ordering the driver of his Mark VI tank to reduce speed to a crawl, Second Lieutenant Morren Littauer ducked lower in his command cupola as tree branches scraped his open hatch, depositing twigs and leaves inside the turret. "Driver, slower," he repeated into his throat mic.

"We're in danger of stalling here, sir," Littauer's driver replied. "Can't go too slowly."

Aware of his driver's concerns, Littauer stood back up in his turret, gripping the trigger of his pintle-mounted stubber, ready to light up any hidden infantry.

"Something ahead, sir," the driver said after a few more minutes' crawling. "Foot-mobiles. Eleven o'clock, thirty yards distant."

"Roger." Littauer clicked his bead, switching to platoon frequency. "Five-Two Alpha. Cain-Cain Five-Two. Halt, halt."

Positioned haphazardly behind in single file, the other four tanks of 2 Troop ground to a halt, their gunners keeping vigil on the dense terrain. Back on crew comms, Littauer lowered his ocular sight from where it was fixed to his bone dome helmet. "Describe your sighting, driver." That Littauer found was unnecessary when a tall man in khaki combats and a red beret appeared, waving to the tank. "Driver, advance."

Pulling alongside the tall man, Littauer halted and waited for him to climb aboard. "Littauer. Two Troop, E Squadron, Sumskoi Hussars."

"Hassid." The tall man shook Littauer's gloved hand. "Second Cyrric Rangers."

"Who?"

"We thought you were here to help us," Hassid's pockmarked face wrinkled.

"I wasn't aware there were any friendly units in front of us. We're supposed to find a pass over the Korg Mountains leading to a dam."

"You must've missed the turn-off. We tried day before yesterday but they blocked the road with a landslide."

"How much of a landslide?" Littauer had a Mk. V equipped with a bulldozer blade that would be just the job for clearing rocks.

"Some of the rocks are bigger than this tank. Might have to blast a path through."

Littauer shook his head. Blasting with high explosive might bring down an even larger landslide, permanently blocking the pass. The platoon was not equipped with special charges for clearing roads. It would have to be a job for the engineers, if they ever showed.

"I need to speak to the commanding officer," Littauer said.

"I command presently. If you are willing, we could use your 'elp."

"You've made contact with the enemy? We haven't even seen him yet. Had a good shooting of some looters yesterday though…"

"Yes. About eight hundred yards to your two o'clock is an enemy firebase. They've been making trouble for us these past two days."

Littauer snorted. "Any other bothers you want us to sort out for you?"

"West of the base, maybe seven-fifty to your three is an OP atop a hill. They've got guns facing north and east."

"Is that it?" Littauer brushed off the Ranger's concerns. "No armour? No anti-tank weapons?"

"No to the first. We've seen very little of the enemy's supporting arms. The second, we have no idea." Hassid shrugged. "Just be aware the terrain in front of the firebase is wholly unsuitable for armour. There is one road that skirts the base. Two of our vehicles are blocking it."

"Not a problem." Littauer was confident the Mk. V would shunt the wrecks aside with minimal fuss. The imperial firebase would serve as a nice warm-up for the future tank-on-tank duels Littauer anticipated. "We will bury the loyalist guardsmen inside the very trenches in which they cower in right now. Driver, advance."

"Are you jumping off now?" Hassid asked concernedly. "You will need infantry support if you go out there."

"The Rangers can follow in our wake. Be sure not to take the credit first." Littauer's tank lurched forwards with Hassid still clinging to the turret. Shouting something lost in the roar of the engine, Hassid climbed off, running back to his men.

Littauer was amused at the sight of the Cyrric Rangers lightly-armed force of open-topped trucks with automatics bolted to the rear beds. His opinion flipped when he noticed large groups of ragged cultists hanging around. Having nothing but disdain for the drug-addicted crazies, Littauer refused to look at them as the tank rolled by. Content in his view that the light mechanised force was completely out of their element, Littauer smiled smugly. Here was ample opportunity for the Sumskois to gain experience and respect.

* * *

I heard the tanks, and I was sealed away in the Pen. If I heard them just fine then so had everyone else on the base. The threat of armoured assault now lingered on everyone's mind. The fear was there, and we hadn't even seen the tanks yet. They were there, somewhere inside the trees, making that awful grinding, clanking noise, infecting all of us with a deep urge to dig our way as deep as we could into the earth beneath our feet. Such terrors only infantrymen felt.

"Courage, lads." Carstan Perandis said to 10 Platoon as he handed round a metal flask containing spirits for each man to have a gulp of. "Courage."

The assembled men crowding the sides of the trench wore blank, resigned expressions. Some of them had immediately heaved up the strong liquor at their feet, their stomachs too tightly knotted to consume either food or drink. A few – more devout men – prayed in silence.

"I'm not ready for this, Staff Sergeant," a little voice said beside Perandis.

"Courage." Perandis passed the young man the flask. "Stay strong, stay true to one another, and the Emperor will see you through."

"Are we not getting our sergeant major or company commander back, Staff Sergeant?" Another man asked.

"Or our commissar; isn't he supposed to be inspiring us now?"

"Courage. Now listen to your platoon sergeant and listen closely. Every man remove one of his identity tags from around his neck and place it inside his boot – _inside_ his boot. Doesn't matter which foot, only that it's stowed safely. Section leaders on me."

To the corporals in command of the sections, Perandis ordered them to acquire every man's personal affects: letters, identification, money, picts, good luck tokens, then deliver them all to him for burial. "So Zeke can't get our stuff," Perandis explained.

Remaining out of sight, their engines still clearly audible, the tanks waited. _For what purpose?_ Perandis wondered as he shovelled earth onto the travel sacks in which the grunt's affects had been stowed. _They're probably having trouble reorganising the cultists into some semblance of order._ Besides numbers and an eagerness to fight, the cultists really were poor substitutes for trained riflemen. Enough of them lay out in the waste, filling up the shellholes.

"Can't wait to be home, away from all this," a private who was watching his things be buried muttered sullenly.

"I'll never know why…" Perandis said loudly enough for everyone to hear him. "…why I found myself missing being out here when I went home on leave, it was all I could think about. Back home on Anzino Five you put in fourteen-fifteen hour shifts in the manufactorums – factories, what have you. They scrub your name, assign you a letter and a number for the shift you're on and that's that. I was sixteen when I dodged the shift, bunked off and ran down to the first recruitment office I could find. I hadn't seen the sun – the real sun – in three and a half years. Now the Imperial Guard, they gave me my name back, gave me a home, gave me a purpose. I found a home in the Guard. And here it is. Home is wherever you dig it. Now you either drink that stuff, Private, or you pass it on to the next man. And don't be complaining about wantin' to go home 'cause when you get back there you'll find it ain't the same as before. Nor will it be the same. Ever."

"And what was public opinion on your planet of servicemen returning home from the war?" A stout man in khaki Cadian fatigues of a different cut than the standard double-breasted tunic asked. Hanging from his neck were numerous image capturing devices. A revolver was holstered on his hip and an M-36 was slung across his back.

Noticing the bundle of notes the man was holding, Perandis leant over to see the man's footwear. "Lost your skidlid?"

"Uh, I'm with the Cadian Enquirer—"

"Show me your soles." Perandis tugged at one of the man's boots, pulling it upwards to very vocal protests. The black leather combat boots were in the standard Cadian pattern, with a direct-moulded rubber sole. The gathered platoon men, seeing the out-of-place interloper for the first time, looked at him with interest.

"Zeke wears hobnailed boots," Perandis let go of the man's foot and stood back up, wiping his hands down on his trouserlegs. "We don't."

"I'm J—" the stout man began before being interrupted for the second time.

"You stay on the sidelines now, Scribe. You can get hurt out here. That's not my problem though. You'll want to keep it that way. It only becomes my problem if one of my people gets hurt because of you."

"I'll be careful, Staff Sergeant," Scribe said quickly.

"They give you permission to come out here, Photo?"

"Ha! The boys and girls back in the office in Kraf didn't believe me when I said I wanted to attach myself to a line company. They signed me off in a heartbeat, thought I was batty for wanting such a thing."

"Yeah, you're brave enough. So why aren't you a grunt? How come you're taking pictures not tallies?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I want to help open people's eyes a bit to who it is that gets the work done, picks up the real slack. You know what I'm saying? I just think I'd get a better feel of the war out here than inside an air-cooled office. Meet some of the real heroes who—"

"No heroes in this mob. Heroes wear red sashes, officer's pips, or powered armour. Right here we're just a lotta skuzzy grunts doing dirty jobs for others who will never know us or what we did. A job's all it is. Just do it, get paid, and go home. I'm saying if you want to write about heroes find a commissar or an officer, they're respectable, acceptable in the public eye to be heroes. Write what you see here. Just don't make us out as something we're not."

* * *

Jark was still withholding the artillery batteries. Mik Meller cursed them heartily for it. Zero Alpha, when contacted, had not believed Meller about the presence of tanks to the north of Rakka owing to the fact that contact had not been made. It all changed when Perandis entered the CP hurriedly and reported that there were tanks now advancing up the road.

"Three Alpha. Contact. Enemy tank platoon two-hundred yards north of my callsign. Request fire mission regiment. Over," Meller said over the vox link to the battalion commander in Kasr Jark.

"Zero One. Send details. Over."

"Five Mark Sevens with accompanying infantry," Perandis said.

"Three Alpha. Five Mark Sevens with infantry escorts. Targets in the open," Meller relayed. "Request fire mission regiment at grid Cain-Echo, two-six-four, five-three-zero. Over."

The battalion commander's response was maddening. "Zero One. Negative on fire mission regiment. Targets are within two-hundred yards of your callsign. Too dangerous for the 132s to fire. Over."

Lifting his finger from the push-to-talk button, Meller hissed, " _damn_." By the look on his face Perandis shared his opinion. "Three Alpha. Requesting fire mission. Urgent. Over."

"Zero One. Just hold on, Three. Support will be diverted to your AO when available. Over."

"Three Alpha. Send support soon or don't bother. Out." Meller clicked off and thrust the handset to Wharton.

"We found a Scoba recoilless rifle in CQMS's stash. It's something," Perandis said.

"Anything. Anything." Folding his arms, Meller waved a hand.

"Yeah. Something." Perandis took off back to 10 Platoon's sector. At the same time the tanks were rolling down the track, spearheaded by a vehicle equipped with a bulldozer blade.

"Wait. Wait 'til he's banged through the wrecks." Aimo Garst held his breath as he waited beside the team carrying the platoon's single Scoba 84-millimetre anti-tank weapon. Cyrano rested the short tube on his shoulder, balancing himself against the wall of sandbags which were vibrating from the tank's movements. Assisting him was Belisha, who carried the only two reloads.

"You got a clean shot on the track?" Aimo's hand twitched in anticipation. "Cyrano?"

"No. The first shot goes through the plough. And the second will remove the track," Cyrano said loudly to make himself heard over the growing din.

"You sure?"

"I was a gunner in the Atreides Youth Corps. Best days of my life."

"Maybe I should take over?" Belisha hefted the pair of warheads he carried. "Seems a bit odd a horse-botherer knows how to work a stovepipe."

"No-no, not necessary." Unfazed, Cyrano followed the progress of the bulldozer tank, keeping the optics trained on where he wanted the round to go. The lower left of the steel plough. Such an instrument was not designed to halt anything with even rudimentary armour-piercing capabilities. The 84-millimetre warhead would punch through it with ease, exposing the vulnerable track behind.

Confident to the point of arrogance it seemed, the lead tank commander was riding unbuttoned with his head and shoulders visible within the tank's cupola which was open to the sky. His bone-dome helmet was painted black with a pair of red stripes decorating the crown. Every few moments he raised a pair of cracked macrobinoculars and scanned the area ahead, searching for mines buried in the road. His other hand was gripping the trigger mechanism of a pintle-mounted .30-calibre stubber. Below, and practically hugging his mount, mercenaries and cultists were grouped behind the mobile cover the tank provided, each of the five vehicles acting as tall shields for Zeke.

"Standby." Aimo said in a steady voice as the bulldozer slowed to a crawl as it approached the intertwined wrecks.

"Wreck 'em." Belisha bobbed on his heels in jovial anticipation. His bright mood was shared by none. The earth underfoot was shaking now. A loose canteen sitting on a shelf inside a nearby dugout toppled off, clattering loudly when it hit the ground. Nervous fingers brushed triggers, their owners wondering why the fire order had not been given.

"Standby." Aimo looked across at Cyrano who flicked the Scoba's safety off. "Clear behind. Watch out for backblast." A rapid shuffling of feet occurred as lookers-on got out of the way of the rocket's open tail.

The bent prongs of the plough were digging into the track, shunting trails of earth around the tank's flanks as it gouged a shallow channel during the gentle uphill climb that curbed its speed to little more than a brisk jog. As it crested the rise, the commander spoke into his helmet mic, warning the driver to reduce speed before they collided with the two guntrucks.

"Shall we give it to 'em?" someone asked.

"Quiet, that man," Lieutenant Corta sang out from inside his dugout. "Standby."

"Yeah, you heard Mister Corta. Standby." Aimo raised his hand to signal Cyrano to open fire. "Safety."

"She's armed," Cyrano said.

"On the command. Wait for the command." Corta's voice came out steadily. The bruiser was pushing its way forwards, slowly shunting the wrecks out of its path, tearing the metal bodies apart, and rending the collapsed chassis into scrap.

"On target?"

"Got a clear shot," Cyrano grunted.

"Send it." Aimo dropped his hand and quickly covered his ears as an ear-splitting, metallic _crack_ numbed his hearing. Instantaneously a great _bang_ came from the plough as the warhead impacted, scraping through the welded steel with little loss in velocity. From the Scoba's exhaust erupted large choking gouts of smoke.

"Give me another!" Cyrano wiped his streaming eyes, trying to reacquire his aiming point.

Wiggling his finger in his ringing ears, Aimo supervised Belisha loading a new rocket into the tube. "Make sure it's in properly."

"Ho!" Belisha moved the swing-out breech back into place and tapped Cyrano on the shoulder. Caught off-guard by the heavy impact, the tank commander had dropped inside the turret and slammed his hatch shut. The vehicle itself was still in motion but the plough was drooping slightly where the warhead had damaged the spot where it was welded onto the hull. Continuing onwards resolutely, the tank hit a snag as the wonky blade dug deeper and deeper into the track until it came upon hard earth that was deep enough to be unaffected by the recent rainfall.

"Fire when ready." Satisfied with Cyrano's marksmanship, Aimo looked on as the tank built up piles of earth in front of it before it bogged down completely. Pressing a hand to his right ear, he winced as the deep, whip-like report of the Scoba made his heart leap into his throat. The travel speed of the warhead – 250 metres per second – was gratuitous for such a large and now stationary target. Cyrano's aim was dead on. With the broken blade out of the way, there was nothing between the round and the tank's exposed front track. _There's a good lad!_ Savage elation gripped Aimo when he saw the heavy steel links part with one another and lay themselves out across the fresh earth. Realising they were in trouble, the tank crew – wisely – chose to abandon their vehicle, disappearing through the bottom hatch and crawling away.

"Good shot, that man!" Corta exclaimed, leaving his bunker and examining the results through his glasses. "Marksmanship."

"Did that one good, didn't ya, Beardy?" Belisha patted Cyrano on the shoulder. Unlatching the breech, he swung it out and checked the weapon was clear.

"Infantry's pulling back," Aimo noted. "Tanks are too."

Corta glassed the near-rout and nodded. "Yeah. They need one another to attack. So as long as we can keep the tanks out of the fight, lads, we'll be alright. Keep alert for now."

Carried out in low tones, the conversations Aimo overheard from his section and other platoon members were nearly all positive, something that made him glad. Morale was still high, and even with armoured support, the enemy was still beatable; it all hinged on that obstruction on the road though. _If I were a Zeke tank commander I would want to recover my mount as quickly as I could_. _It would be_ _tonight then._

Warily Aimo approached Lieutenant Corta and Platoon Sergeant Molchan inside the dugout. He was apprehensive of asking about heading into the kill zone after nightfall what with Larn's unauthorised excursion costing him command of 10 Platoon and then his strange disappearance. Jacklyn Molke was quite subdued when he returned to the section. He had been like that ever since. There had been no reason for the other private's absence too, and no one was telling. _Where are you, pal?_ Aimo pondered sadly whilst he waited for Corta to give him his attention.

"Was that your man, Corporal?" Corta asked once Molchan had left.

"Yes, sir. Cyrano Semir… I can't pronounce his name, sir. He's a good sort. A bit wild in appearance but that's his look."

"Cavalry I hear. Hooves instead of tracks."

Averse to wasting any more time, Aimo tried to steer the discussion his way. "Sir, Zeke's gonna try and repair that tank tonight and drive it back out. I wanted to have a crack at making sure the tank's a permanent landmark now."

"Officially our orders are to hold our ground. No excursions beyond the wire, Corporal, you know that." Corta then added, keeping his expression flat throughout. " _If_ a man was to be caught outside the wire then it would be a punishable offence."

"Yes, sir." Aimo fought to keep his excitement down. _Yes, you can go but don't get caught by Zeke or you're on your own,_ Corta had basically said. "Sir, I wanted to ask about Sarn't Larn."

"What about him?"

"Where is he, sir?"

"Private Larn is taking time out in the Pen. His actions on a patrol cost the life of a soldier under his command. Captain Meller no longer feels he is fit to wear stripes of a non-commissioned officer." Corta looked a little downcast when he said it.

"…Tearing off his rank and binning him." Aimo's eyes filled with contempt. Slowly he said, "not one of you knows what he went through on Nemtess. I do. I was there with him. He was tiptoeing over death's threshold, _this_ close to biting it. But he pulled through 'cause he's a right hard lad, sir. He's a good soldier. Lieutenant Corta, sir, would you treat a veteran soldier like James Larn the way Captain Meller's treatin' him?"

"Well, his experiences on Nemtess have clearly made him not himself, Corporal Garst. I am aware of the toll combat takes on a person's being. Captain Meller is doing it for Larn's own good. Larn is a danger to himself and to other people at this stage. He is _not_ fit to lead men in battle."

Glowering, Aimo practically spat, "sir!" As he departed the dugout he muttered, "we'll see about this."

The Pen was quiet when Aimo approached. Pulling the sliding panel at head height back, he called in softly, "James. You in there, pal?"

"Go 'way, Aimo," a small, strained voice replied from inside.

"Number ten, mate. Sorry you're in here like this." Aimo pressed his face up to the opening and tried to see inside.

"You know, you can just open the door," another person said. "It's bolted on the outside."

"Oh, shit." Aimo glanced down to see the drawn bolt on the outside. "Who else is in there with you?"

"Some Zeke pris'ners."

"We're Tabor Territorials. What's this Zeke nonsense?"

"Ye can't open the door, Aimo. You'll get a bollocking."

"Aw no," Aimo sighed. "Can't believe Meller threw you in here. You don't deserve it."

"I do."

"Nah, number ten, you gotta come with me. We're going out past the wire to destroy a Zeke tank. Comp-C, Castra, explosions; your sorta thing. Get wired!"

"Don't want to. Go away."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Meller don't want me in the company any more. I'm binned."

Aimo slapped a hand on the doorframe in frustration. "Nah, bollocks to that, mate. You'll be outta there with your three stripes, most kosh. Hey, I'll let you know when I waste the Zeke tank. Tell you all about it. We're still winnin' we are. There'll be plenty o' Zeke left for you to zip. Don't you worry, pal."

It was the Tabor prisoner who replied, "how many tanks do the mercs have?"

"Lock that cunt mouth o' yours shut, Zeke. I'll break you're fucking fingers one by one." Aimo snarled bitterly. "You hold up in there, James," he continued in a warm, brotherly tone, with no pause in between. "Stick it out."

* * *

 **00:56**

Zeke was making no attempt to disguise his intent to repair the broken-down tank, if the clanking sounds were anything to go by. Three men were crowded around the front left track, talking quietly whilst working to reassemble the heavy steel links. _Only three?_ Aimo thought suspiciously as he crawled along a muddy ditch that ran along beside the track. His awkward posture, one foot on either bank, was necessary to not disturb the brown water that had gathered along the bottom. One wrong footfall and consequential splash would be fatal if Zeke had posted security. So he took it slowly. Very quickly his cotton uniform was soaked through with cold mud. The midnight chill in the air did not help matters, nor did the annoying headache he was on the receiving end of.

Stopping a fair distance from the tank, Aimo shouldered a Castra he had been dragging along and aimed the front sight directly at the track without bothering to flip up the tangent sights. Such precautions in aiming were unnecessary at such close range. The high-explosive round would land exactly where he aimed. How could he miss? Aimo froze and listened to the clanks, the wind, and his own thudding heartbeat. The three men were unaware of his presence, and none had visible weapons in reach, from what Aimo could see. For the tiniest instance, a hint of reluctance made Aimo pause. The three were simply doing their job without malicious intent and only to help repair their broken tank. The killing in cold blood was not something Aimo had ever been party to before. It was all very well wasting Zeke in battle, when both sides were intent on killing one another in 'lawful' combat, and thinking nothing of it in the aftermath. But this, and Aimo's earlier threats to the Tabor prisoners, gave him pause for thought. _Was I within acceptable behavioural standards when talking to the prisoners? Could I have gone through with the threats really? Am I right in doing this now?_

 _Take it or leave it_.

Steeling his resolve, Aimo squeezed the Castra's trigger. The machine-like _pop_ rang out loudly and the weapon bucked. A bright flash and a crash of metal on metal was intermingled with the wet, slapping sounds of body parts separating and flying in all directions. White-hot scraps of flesh, bone, and blackened cloth fragments were scattered across the tank's flank and bow amongst thin clouds of pinkish blood, dark in the absence of light that gave the worn metal an unnatural sheen. The three mounds of waste that had seconds before been fully-functioning, living, breathing human beings shocked Aimo, and he was not so easily rattled; not after Nemtess. Not one had had the chance to cry out, to protest the unfairness of the ambush.

The commotion attracted not one but two stubber teams that were set up at a distance on either flank, neither of which Aimo had spotted previously. Both proceeded to work their pieces, criss-crossing their bright green firing arcs to form a killzone that left no patch of ground untouched. Fearful now, Aimo wriggled as fast as he could over to the other side of the road as the leftmost gun raked up and down the ditch he had just evacuated. Heedless of the mud fouling his Castra, Aimo found himself crawling amidst piles of Zeke dead, slowly decomposing bodies that had fallen victim to Cannon Company over the past two days. Even a mere 48 hours later the accompanying smell was growing powerful. There were so many there. It was a slaughterhouse. _How can they still come at us when we have put so many of their friends in the ground?_ Aimo trembled inside as he brushed against hands and feet, all of which were cold and rigid. Above his head tracers whizzed, the gunners now firing searching bursts into the night. Under orders not to open fire unless assaulted, C-for-Cannon remained quiet. Rakka was still. No flares were being sent up.

 _The Emperor protects_ , Aimo recited inwardly on heaving himself up a mound and rolling over the crest. _The Emperor pro_ —

A violent jerk from behind pulled him over. Gripped by a ripening fear, Aimo found he was lying backwards with his feet on the slope above and his head facing the scummy water. A pair of powerful hands was keeping him in place. His Castra had come to rest underneath his chin, the warm steel of the barrel pressing against it.

A face, upside down with the rest of the world, loomed over him close enough to smell the breath. Tilting downwards, a pair of faintly-glowing eyes, yellowish, narrowed as they scrutinised Aimo. At the sight of the frightening eyes, Aimo shut his tightly. A strangled whimper escaped him when a needle, cold as ice, pricked his skin and plunged into his skull.

"You will never see the face of your child," a female voice growled.

The pain ended. Not even a half second had passed. The blood was rushing into Aimo's head. "No. No. No," he gasped, overcome with light-headedness.

"What became of the Tabors? The father and son."

"Locked up. Locked up in the Pen," Aimo choked. With his neck stretching he found it nigh-impossible to swallow. "Treated fairly."

The hands took the Castra from Aimo and withdrew. Clutching his neck, Aimo clumsily righted himself. "I know you…" He raised a finger, trying to place it. "Nemtess. I was on Nemesis Tessera. You're that stickie my mate mentioned, gotta be."

Now covered by a drooping hood that masked her face, the stickie broke open the Castra, examining the spent shell that was still sitting inside.

"I've got – I've got a family. Yeah, a missus and a little one that's coming and I want to see them both." Aimo clasped his hands together as if in prayer. "I know you dragged my mate off Nemtess so maybe you ain't such a bad sort, stickie. Never thought I'd say that about bloody xenos."

"You will never see the face of your child, human," the stickie said, gently closing the Castra's breech. "You must believe that you are already dead and nothing, no-one matters to you."

Though disturbed by the stickie's ominous words, Aimo knew she was wrong. "What 'bout your people or your family? You must have a spouse, maybe a pair of little terrors too. Who'd you fight for then? Why you out here on your own?" The stickie said nothing, simply stared. "Larn. Little fella. Had a spot o' bother on Nemtess, remember? I thought he'd been saddled with a real estate deal but then you show up hauling his dumb arse like a sack o' spuds over your shoulder. Baffled I was." Pausing to gather his words, Aimo said, gentler than before, "do you l—"

"The wolf's head is severed." The stickie interrupted, tossing a soft object to Aimo which turned out to be a beret. "Show this to your commanding officer and tell him the enemy commander was amongst those killed in the day's action."

Running a finger over the metal flash pinned to the fabric, Aimo sniffed the material. "Ain't one of ours, that's for damn sure."

"The Cyrric Rangers oppose you. Remember that. It will not be repeated."

"Why? Why?"

"The Imperium is, right now, the lesser of the two evils. And I would never see the banners of Chaos hang over the galaxy. It would mean the destruction of my people, and yours." Leaning forwards, the stickie drew back her hood to reveal an intense gaze. "Surrender, lest all your lives be lost."

Astonished, Aimo shook his head fervently. "We shall never surrender. Not to these Cyrric Rangers, cultists, tanks, not to anyone. Zeke's gonna have Rakka, but only the ashes will remain after the last of us have fallen. We'll let him have the ashes."

"More will come. Many more. Their numbers will grind your insignificant outpost into dust."

"Not while we have the weather. The rain we've had recently churns up the fields. Tanks can't move on them. It won't be long. Relief will be here in a few days, mark my words."

"And your friend is… there beside you?" the stickie's tone had lost its biting edge.

"'Course, he will be once he gets let out of the Pen, poor sod. I don't know anything about him but I still love him like a brother. He's a good soldier, I swear. It's just he always gets the shit end of the stick."

"The deepest bonds are forged on the battlefield." The stickie reversed the Castra and passed it back to Aimo. "Unshakeable. Unbreakable."

"Come in with me."

"I cannot reveal my presence. I would not be tolerated."

"You're not stickie here, you're a merc. I'll tell the captain we've got outside help from a sniper operating in this area." Aimo had noticed the long-barrelled rifle slung across the stickie's back. "You said we're the lesser of two evils, so help us beat Zeke. Do something useful rather than sitting around idle out here."

The stickie pointed a finger. "Run back to your hole, young human. You have more battles to fight. Stay true to your friends."

"You can do something right here. It's for a good cause."

"There are no good causes. And if I ever fought for one, it was too long ago to recall."

There was a definite mourning now in the stickie's voice, something that tugged at Aimo's heart. She appeared to him as a warrior without meaning, a lost soldier without a single ally left, barely clinging on to what she had been before but gradually forgetting who she was and what she was fighting for.

It gave Aimo the shivers thinking of the disturbed stickie on the slow trek back to Rakka, who existed outside the wire, a golden-eyed phantom cloaked in darkness and death; drawn to the carnage of the humans.


	26. Chapter 25

**Kasr Kraf, 09:04**

Unhurriedly, the aide came over to General Creed and passed him the folded sheet of green paper that one of the many humming cogitators had just churned out. In the bluish light from the map, Creed read it to his staff. "Our orbital observation reports armoured attack in I Corps sector as of zero eight nineteen."

"What of the Korg Mountains? Has the enemy tried for the dam?" A staff colonel asked. There was a general worry circulating the command centre now that every front was being assailed. With the larger battles occurring west of Kasr Stark, the Kolarak plains, and far to the south of Kraf at Martyr's Rampart, the northern flank, closest to the river, was now being drawn into the war.

"Precautions were taken to ensure no enemy offensive could be carried out through the mountains," Creed said grimly. Removing the ever-lit cigar from his mouth he gesticulated at the map. "Once clear of the pass, and the dam, the enemy has a downhill run to the Elysion Fields where he would slice our armies in two. That is unacceptable. But nevertheless, an assault from the river was expected. With faith and the bayonet we shall blunt the enemy's thrust as a sword is by a rock. Let us manoeuvre General Wallace's 15th Infantry Division – write this down, lieutenant!"

The tip of his pencil quivering, a young subaltern quickly scribbled down Creed's dictated orders. "Compliments to the officer commanding One Corps, General Cathker A. Wallace. Displace Fifteen I.D. from positions along the banks of the Luten and form blocking force along Highway Two. Expect infantry and armoured assault from north. Chances of relief: slim. Signed, General Ursarker Edgar Creed. Lord Castellan."

As Creed was dictating, one of his colonels was poring over the map, swiping it with his hand to blow up the image. "Sir, there are two firebases guarding the approaches to Highway Two."

"Numbers?" Creed was dubious about the lightly-defended scratch bases that lined the Luten. The garrisons were not comprised of Cadians and therefore far inferior in quality. Those third-rate troops would crumble like wet paper in the face of a combined infantry and armoured assault. Either way, their loss would be of little significance.

"About five hundred combined. Roughly 250 men at each."

"Let the enemy have them," Creed dismissed. "Their grand strategy revolves around the subjugation of our great Kasrs. And Jark and the Cadian Shock Troopers shall stand firm in the face of assault as Stark is currently. Five hundred men – half a battalion at most are negligible losses. Now, air cover must be arranged for Fifteenth Div. It will be bad for morale if it appears that the enemy controls the skies."

"All fighter and bomber groups are currently engaged, my lord," the naval officer coordinating the planes said. "If not then they are in constant rotation."

"And the Marines?" Creed wondered what the garrison inside the downed strike cruiser not far from the firebases was doing and why it was not helping the companies. Rifles and automatics could do nothing against tanks.

"MAG One-Five is still sitting on the tarmac, sir. On the occasion they have gone up, it was only to provide close air support to the Black Templar detachment down in the south at Martyr's Rampart. There has been only one recorded sortie anywhere else and that was the briefest flypast of Kasr Jark."

"A flypast?" Creed growled. "Tell me it was a combat operation and not simply showboating."

"It was allegedly in honour of Orven Highfell, he commands the Space Wolves Great Company. They are occupying the Kasr."

"Why they are not in the field right now is anyone's guess," another staff officer mused. "The Dark Angels' Four Company inside the cruiser are the same. Idle. There is no other word for it."

"The Sisters?" Creed indicated the Shrine of Saint Morrican sitting on the very eastern extent of the Korg Mountains.

"Awaiting their canoness' orders, sir."

"And Admiral Quarren's battlegroups are otherwise too engaged in trading barrages with the enemy fleet or holding the corridor to give us a precision strike from orbit," Creed said to himself. The strangulation of resources was a significant hamper, but by no means was it damning. Creed had fought battles with far less at his disposal and won.

Stubbing his cigar out, Creed said sternly, "then we will win this fight with or without their help. Time, gentlemen. Time is a must. The longer we hold, the closer relief comes. In the meantime I want every battalion not engaged to launch aggressive counterattacks where the terrain, manpower and logistics permit. Make sure our army commanders know this is the lord castellan's word."

Creed deliberately avoided the ongoing evacuation from Kraf and the airbase as mentioning it might stir thoughts of retreat which, right then, was impossible. Any unit caught retreating in the face of the enemy would face a commissar's discipline. That rule he made sure would be enforced harshly.

* * *

 **Rakka**

On the morning after the aborted tank assault, Cannon Company lost Hill 558. It was simple, basic fact. Dug-in infantry with zero means to repel tanks and a complete absence of artillery or air could not stand. The fresh force of cultists, ostensibly never-ending, came with renewed vigour, their spirits bolstered by the welcome presence of armour. Under the cover of the cannons firing closely over their heads, sharpened bayonets bobbed up and down as cultists and mercenaries advanced; the former yammering with delight at the chance to shed blood.

Olen Azar ducked as the rush of air above his head was immediately followed with a _crash_ of a howitzer shell dumping tides of earth onto the trench floor and inside the collar of his flak jacket. Mortars too were gnawing away at the OP. They were indistinguishable from the tank fire. Sneezing from all the dust and propellant stinking up the air, Azar blew dirt from where it had fallen inside the ejection port of his Lecta which was in danger of fouling the thick pistol-calibre rounds inside the magazine. Taking turns to bob up and shoot at the incoming Zekes with Gale, Azar heard the first scream for more ammunition somewhere down the trench. One of the men hauled up from M/T reached for an M-36 power pack he had laid out on the trench parapet to recharge in the sun but yanked his hand back, howling in pain as bullets struck the sandbags, sending the riddled pack spinning away, a pair of severed fingers with them. Azar was in the process of tossing an aid packet over to the writhing grunt when more shells thudded, or rather, exploded too close. Each report rang a giant gong inside Azar's head, boxing his ears and making him dizzy.

Down the trench, someone was clutching at his throat. Weld's glasses were broken and blood was running from a cut on his forehead. "Ammo!" the cry went up.

"What's that?" Gale slapped his ear.

"Ammo's running out, Sarn't," Scurm felt about his girth for any live charge packs. "I've just got what's left in my weapon."

"There's tanks rolling up on us," CQMS stood up and stuck his eye to the optical gunsight he had attached to his .338. "Four of them."

"Time to start throwing rocks maybe." Gale shook loose earth from his trouserleg. The floor was scattered with dirt flying in from above. Empty .338 magazines, dead M-36 charge packs, and spent shells were being constantly kicked around by feet, clinking as they came into contact with one another. The single Rekyl gun still in action had used its last magazine and there was no time to painstakingly reload loose rounds.

"I'm good, Sarn't." Azar rose and shot into the grass where bayonets were the only targets visible. He was steadily working through his bundle of stick magazines, having expended both of his heavy drums. The presence of the automatic had annoyed Scurm and Weld enough for Scurm to complain about it to Gale. Gale had told him to shut up and ordered Scurm to give up the shotgun Azar had fetched from Stores to the corporal instead. The weapon, sounding closer to a miniature cannon due to the cut-down barrel, gave one last _boom_ before falling silent. The corporal dropped back down into the trench, sliding back the bolt with his thumb and inspecting the chamber. "Fuck it, I'm out." He plucked at his bandolier and found it empty.

"Cold steel now." Gale nodded at his cooks to affix their bayonets onto their respective weapons.

"Nah. Negative, you lot," the corporal shouted at the top of his voice to be heard over the combined noise of the advancing tanks and wallops of the mortars. "Once your ammo's out. Take off back to Rakka and tell the captain we're pulling out."

"Got it," Gale acknowledged. "Look sharp, lads. Stand by to displace."

The faint blast of a whistle carried over the racket to the ears of the men in the OP.

"As you were trained to do, boys. Tap 'em centre mass and never mind the bayonets." The corporal passed out his last few grenades. "Any rear-echelon blokes make your way quietly and sensibly down the slope to your right once your ammunition is expended, not before."

"We'll go in twos and threes," Gale said. "Scurm and I first then CQMS, me, and the lads from Motor-T. Azar, you've still got ammo so stay here and cover our retreat; sound good?"

"Number one. Can't wait to leave. Worst holiday ever," Weld joked.

"What's a holiday?" CQMS sneered. Behind, and unnoticed by him, one of the corporal's men, instantly killed by a round to the eye, slumped against the wall and gently slid down until he was lying in a pile, half-buried. The resulting blood spray was lessened as the bullet bit into the brain and sheared off the top of the man's skull, leaving the mess contained inside his cover. The man nearest him pushed the quartermaster sergeant from behind and went to check on his pal.

"Ceri, get back up," the corporal exclaimed.

"He's wasted." Ceri pressed the helmet back down onto the head when it became apparent the top half of the skull, and parts of the brain had come away completely when Ceri had tried to take the helmet off.

"Work that piece like you were trained!" The corporal shoved the last M/T man past him as he latter's magazine ran dry. "Move it, son."

"Give us cover, Azar," Gale pulled Scurm from the OP with him.

Grenades were going off now, the last whispers from the M-36s and cracks of LARs dropping to nothing. Throwing overarm, the corporal and the remaining able-bodies in his section delivered the frags into the enemy's midst, sometimes simply rolling them out of firing holes into the grass and bodies below. They caught incoming stick grenades too and returned them to their senders. Azar, the heat rising from his Lecta's barrel, did not bother to wait for any of the men from M/T; he just took off after CQMS and Gale. Powering down the slope he found again that Zeke was just a poor shot in general as no-one had been felled by him. The exhilaration turned to dismay when it appeared Gale had called a halt on the lower slopes of the hill just before the first water-filled shell holes.

"Stop." Gale held up a hand when Azar careened onto his stomach beside the group. "Wait for the others."

"We're in the open here, Mess Sergeant," CQMS fidgeted worriedly. "Zeke will shoot down on us once he's cleared the OP."

"Agreed Colour Sarn't. We're obliged to give the others covering fire, so we stay."

Azar looked at Scurm and Weld. Both were red-faced and panting, neither having had to move so fast before. They hadn't been up and down the bloody hill twice. He had. Where was the gratitude for that matter?

"With what? We're out of ammunition."

"I'd say it's the thought that counts," Gale glassed the smoke-covered hill. "There they are."

Azar watched the little group of men, nothing more than specks of green, attempt to break off the engagement and escape, leaping, jumping, and zig-zagging down the slope even as cultists appeared a stone's throw behind them and took up firing positions. A handful of them, slightly more insane than the usual type, charged after them with bladed weapons. Despite not knowing or particularly caring for any of them, Azar found his mouth dry watching the desperate flight. As the cracks of rifles increased, bursts of automatics added to the fray. Some cultists were firing, some were chasing. A few had fallen in the grass and were relaxing, content to be spectators. One even got up and waved. Two of the corporal's men, hit or not, it was unclear, were overtaken by a bunch of the more energetic cultists and brought down. They were then dragged back up the slope by their arms and legs and out of sight.

"Get moving, the lotta you!" the corporal bellowed as he and his four remaining men rolled the last few feet and tumbled into the cover of the shellholes. "You're stationary targets."

"You heard the corporal." Gale dragged the beat Scurm and Weld to their feet.

"Not gotta tell me twice." Azar made a showing of helping one of the corporal's men who was limping along.

* * *

Rakka had watched the retreat from 558. Mik Meller too had left the CP to observe. It was inevitable, he thought with a sinking heart. The heavy rumble of the tanks could be heard near the crest of the hill and cultists ran around this way and that, ecstatic that they had finally got one up on the enemy.

The trudge of boots on the muddy ground and the men that had made it down the hill plodded through the main gate. The encouragement by the unit on gate duty to hurry up was ignored. At the head of his little band, the corporal came and presented himself to Meller.

"Good morning, Corporal," Meller said, keeping his tone light so as not to appear condemning to the weary men.

"Good morning, sir. We were forced off Hill 558."

"Inevitable. Not yours or your mens' fault, Corporal. Casualties?"

"Sir. Four KIA, Two MIA. Superficial wounds on some." The corporal shrugged off his shotgun and planted the butt in the ground, leaning on it.

"Right. Any man in need of medical treatment report to Cain Med. Sarn't Gale, is your cookforce intact?"

"Uh, yessir." Gale glanced between Azar, Scurm, and Weld. "All present and accounted for."

"Accompany CQMS over to Stores and sign your gear back in. You will be back in the kitchen for now."

"Very good, sir," CQMS looked relieved at being able to return to his roost. "Follow me, you cooks."

Azar balked at the notion he would be subservient to Gale again. "Sir, can I…?" he stalled.

"Azar, you're with us." Gale jerked a thumb. He and the other cooks were already moving off after CQMS.

Meller remembered the runner that had gone up and down Hill 558, Olen Azar. Quickly dismissing the three from M/T he called over to Azar. "Private?"

"Sir, can I be a runner instead?" Azar babbled. "I'm gonna be back in the kitchen otherwise."

"Come on, Azar. Sorry, sir." Gale stood behind Azar and tried to get him to move. "Absolutely not, you're second cook."

"A foot runner would be welcome," Meller said. "Your present post is now at the company CP unless I leave, whereupon you'll accompany me. Does that make sense?"

"Yessir, thank you, sir." Azar casting a triumphant grin at Gale then threw a salute.

A bullet whacked into a wooden post beside Meller's head, throwing out splinters before screaming off. Gale was the first to take off. Meller had to grab Azar's arm and haul him out of sight of the marksmen on the hill before they could fire again. "Important lesson for a runner and for anyone, Private," Meller spoke calmly despite coming close to having his life ended prematurely. "Never salute an officer in the field. That's why we don't wear any of this," he lifted up a corner of his collar which was hanging out side his flak jacket. The pin holes for rank insignia were visible.

Azar nodded sheepishly, embarrassed he had fluffed up like that. "I'm sorry, sir," he mumbled.

"Lesson learned. I know how you ORs hate officers and that. But we're a lesser evil compared to those scum on the hill."

* * *

With the revelation that Zeke could put fire down inside the base, everyone was a lot more cautious, and most movement in the open ceased entirely. Some dismissed the rounds as nothing more than strays, hopefuls fired by the cross-eyed cultists as nothing more than annoyances to incite fear. Neither Woulter or Peter were aware of the developments, with both still locked up inside the Pen with no indication of what was going on.

"You've got a good friend in that lad," Woulter said gently to the ex-sergeant curled up against the opposite wall. "I wish I'd had friends who looked out for me during my service period."

Peter looked up at his dad hopefully. "You never spoke much about your old friends."

"Well it was sixteen – seventeen years ago. I forget really. I was never good at remembering names, not like you or your mum."

"Our lot were different back then, weren't they?"

"It was a different time, son. Tabor was under imperial governance. Though I suppose nothing really changed down in the mid-hive when our new masters came. Work quotas went up a bit but that was expected really. The planet was at war. It was me and your mum and she was pregnant. It was difficult enough raising a toddler down in that stuffy, smog-filled cesspit. But, here we are. She'd be proud of you, Peter."

"Proud of me for what? I haven't done anything. Well nothing of my own accord anyway. Every bit of your life is controlled isn't it? That's what made us think fighting the Imperium's a good thing. They want your arms and legs constantly working like one of those servo-bots. You're not seen as human, are you?" The last question he directed at the lad the other man had called James.

"Oh, of course he's human," Woulter said.

"No, no. What's the word? You're human literally but not…"

"Metaphorically?"

"Metaph… yeah."

"Well I wouldn't say our way was any better than his. I shudder to think that those cultists are – were? – our allies, especially after what they did to our section."

"Running down that street…" Peter left it hanging for a moment, trying to find the words. "Those shots were so loud. The banging. Terrifying. We didn't have a chance."

"It doesn't matter. We're here. We're safe—"

"No-one's safe," the young soldier grunted.

"Huh?"

"Not safe."

"We'll take here over out there. I figured we'll get better treatment with your lot than with them. James, was it?"

Immediately the soldier clammed up, hugging his knees with his arms tightly and burying his face.

"How's he a sergeant? He doesn't look that much older than me," Peter whispered.

"He's not a sergeant any more, Peter. He made a mistake, that's all. He'll be back outside with his friends soon."

"We weren't allowed to make friends in the regiment, Dad. Everyone got beaten one time or another by the other blokes in his section."

Woulter hugged Peter immediately. "Well, we don't talk about that now, do we? We were forced. And if anyone hesitated then he was beaten too."

"You've had the bugger," the soldier said.

"We did."

"We got shot at with paint rounds in phase one. Got a live one in every thousand rounds disguised as a painter. If we buggered up it was one in five-hundred, then two-fifty, then a hundred."

"Did anyone…?" Peter asked slowly.

"No-one bought his farm on Jumael. That came later."

"Is that where you live?"

Woulter stayed silent, listening to Peter, hoping that his son could make the lad come out of his shell.

"Was."

"Tabor was a shithole—"

"Language."

"Dad, the lads I trained with all had potty mouths. You can't keep me shielded from them. I've got to grow up sometime," Peter said, a little irritated by his father's protectiveness. "And I've got my dad along with me to worry about. He can be a pain."

"Oh really…?" Woulter's eyebrows raised but he was secretly overjoyed that Peter was slowly starting to find his feet and talk openly again. He hoped Peter and James might find something in common and warm to one another.

"Yeah, uh, Tabor was one big old waste. Just complete desolation. But there were these hive-cities where we lived. Huge, staggered cities built one on top of the other, going up into the sky, growing narrower and narrower – richer too – until the very tip-top spire. From the outside it was beautiful and ugly at the same time. We never saw it though. Never saw daylight. It's why Tabors are so pale, something inside our skin."

"Melanin," Woulter mentioned. "You're less pale. Could you see the sun from your city?"

"No city."

"Are you a spacer?"

"No."

"He said Jumael, Dad, I think it's a planet."

"Well I guess anywhere's better than Tabor," Woulter tutted. "Your parents must be proud of you."

"Nah. I've done nothing. If they see me they won't recognise me."

"How can a parent not recognise their child?" An expression of dread crept across Peter's face. "Dad?"

Woulter shushed Peter. "That's just how it is, Peter. People change as time goes by. They age."

Sighing loudly, artillery shells crashed down outside. Instinctively the soldier covered his head. Peter did not.

"Safe in here," Woulter murmured.

* * *

Zeke wasted no time in rushing observers onto Hill 558, allowing the artillery on Cadia Primus to lay their fire on Rakka with precision accuracy. During the first barrage a shell scored a direct hit on one of 11 Platoon's bunkers, collapsing it completely and burying the men inside. Reacting immediately, and with a calmness he did not know he was capable of, 2d Lieutenant Morgan Ehle ordered a party armed with shovels to follow him out to the remains of the bunker and begin digging. This he became involved in personally, refusing to abandon his men to slow suffocation; never mind if all of them were dead. While all this was going on, shells continued to howl down, exploding both inside the perimeter and out. Rifle and lasgun fire from 558 was whizzing overhead, many times even thumping into the earth closeby. The Rekyl and .50 Cal teams were returning fire at Zeke, setting their sights at a higher elevation to compensate for the difference in height. As Ehle shovelled at the earth and collapsed wooden supports, one man nearby dropped his shovel, grasping at his arm shouting, "I'm hit."

Displaying - what he hoped was inspiring too - overt disdain for the enemy sharpshooters, Ehle stood up straight, rubbed his back, and went over to the private. "Get yourself over to Cain Med, Private."

"No, no, sir," the private said through set teeth. "I'm alright." He tore open a first aid packet and began to treat his arm himself. "I'll be back on task in a jiffy."

"Well done, laddie." Ehle gave a curt nod of approval and resumed the dig. Very quickly another man was shot, this time receiving a ricochet in the buttocks. The pain only came when he tried to sit and found it hurt tremendously. "Sorry about that, sir," the man whimpered, rubbing the tender spot.

"Cain Med, now." Ehle called out to his platoon sergeant to bring up more men to work on the bunker. The fresh earth underfoot was slowly giving and the crushed supports would soon be out of the way. Even under fire from Zeke and with artillery landing the men were working ceaselessly. It stirred an intense pride within Ehle who did his best to dig harder and faster than anyone else whilst offering loud encouragement. Because of the sharp bursts of the Rekyls and deeper reports of the .50 Cals, Ehle only heard the shriek of the incoming when it was right over his head. Shovels were tossed in the dirt as men threw themselves into cover where they could. Ehle felt himself launched a few feet into the air from where he lay by the force of the blast. Dazed for a second, he felt the ground beneath him and realised he was on his back. Dimly, through the noise, he heard the call for stretcher-bearers go out. Invisible hands grabbed his arms and legs, lifting him up and depositing him on the stretcher that had appeared out of thin air beneath him. Now lying horizontal, a big, dumb slab of meat, Ehle was bumped and jostled and nearly thrown from the stretcher as howling piledrivers dropped their payloads nearby, throwing up building-sized geysers of grey dirt that blew across Rakka like a sandstorm. At one point Ehle almost slid off when the man in front collapsed to his knees, his head drooping.

"Come on, don't stop!" the other stretcher-bearer shouted.

"I can't see. I'm blind."

"Get back up. We've gotta get Mister Ehle inside."

Groaning, the blinded man slowly rose, picking up Ehle's weight again and staggering forwards. His pal shouted directions to him. Both, despite the terrific banging, made it across Rakka and down inside the overcrowded aid station where Ral Bleak and two other medics worked on the casualties from the shelling.

"We've got Lieutenant Ehle here," the stretcher-bearer said to Ral. "My mate says he's blind too."

Ral, his plastic gloves wet with blood, glanced at Ehle. "Right, put him down and get back out there." To the blind grunt he said, "sit yourself down, we'll get to you when we can."

"Can you see him now?" the stretcher-bearer asked hopefully.

"How serious?" Ral said in-between applying tourniquets. "VSIs first. Headwound?"

"Huh?" the stretcher-bearer's mouth went slack as he set Ehle down on the floor amongst other litter cases.

"The lieutenant, does he have a headwound?"

"Uh, nah, no headwound."

"Well where's he hit?" Ral passed a suture to one of the other medics who was poised over a grunt who'd had his skull partly shaved to better treat the wound.

"Side of the leg. Uh, something white on it – in it."

"Those're his bones, dummy," a disgruntled litter case snorted, pointing at Ehle's right leg.

"Don't sweat it, sir."

Ehle blinked and tried to sit up.

"I never seen what's inside a leg before."

Ehle's probing fingers found his trouserleg ripped from hip to ankle. Beneath that he could feel where his flesh had parted and what was beneath. Panic began to grip him. _Will I lose the leg?_ _Will I be able to walk again?_ But then an even more agonising thought came to him. _I left my men trapped_. _They are still buried alive._

A maddening fear sent shivers through his body. The frustration of being rendered immobile was enough to make him want to pummel something into oblivion, to crush with his bare hands in an hysterical rage. Ehle's leg was less agonising than the guilt he felt at himself, lying wounded and helpless when his platoon was getting seven shades knocked out of them outside.

"Any more room?" someone called from the entrance.

"No, no more space in here for litter cases. Take them to the CP," Ral said over his shoulder. "Once this artillery lets up we'll move the litter cases over there. More room."

Ehle swallowed. Straining his neck, he looked round at the other wounded men crowding the dugout. Ral was right, there was no more space to sit or lie down. Most were being forced to stand, awaiting their turn. Tensing his thigh muscles, Ehle felt his leg flare and dropped his head back down. It was getting steadily worse now. Against his will his thoughts were turned from his trapped men and selfishly onto his leg where they stayed. Blood and bad breathe stunk out the air, filling the dugout with a nauseating stench.

Tapping the unfolded map with a finger, Mik Meller mulled over the tactical situation, routinely glancing at his tiny chrono dangling from a buttonhole on his collar as if it might provide a solution to Rakka's Zeke problem. With 558 gone, the west flank, 11 Platoon, was under threat, their situation now identical to 10 and 12 Platoon. Meller had never expected that he would admit to being surrounded but to deny the present conditions would be idiocy. _Adapt and overcome_. _Just how do I hold off a force many times my size, surrounded on three sides, and with neither artillery nor air cover?_ It was one for the lecturers at OCTU to ask the young officer candidates. Meller had wondered what the correct answer to give was when he and his class had been set with the scenario and told to figure out the best possible solution. _Best possible solution, which is?_ Meller himself had stayed silent, preferring others to attempt an answer. Disappointingly, and quite unsettling too, the answer was eventually given by the lecturers as simply 'die for the Emperor, for there can no greater service to the Imperium.'

"Die for the Emperor…" Meller worked a .45-calibre slug between his fingers, wanting to crush the shiny brass into finely ground dust. He had believed it. They all had. There _was_ no greater service, no greater sacrifice. Put frankly, all Meller was expected to do was to die holding ground, that was his job. _Then why are we still here?_ Meller pressed the slug onto the tiny black blot on the map that was Rakka. Dying for the Emperor, to him, inside the trembling dugout, was not in the least bit appealing, not now. Not after Cannon Company had repelled Zeke repeatedly with their own tenacity and the terrain. Balling his fist, Meller slammed it onto the table, startling Azar and Wharton. Cannon wasn't dead yet. They still had their secret weapon, one that had yet to be put into action. "Dig in and hold," Meller spat. "Let them climb over their friends' corpses to get at us."

* * *

 ** _13:03_**

11 Platoon had Zeke watching them on 558 to keep them focused all morning. 10 and 12, with no contact to speak of, were similarly wired. 12 in particular were watching the derelict tank for any signs of life. To ease the boredom a box of black-tipped, armour-piercing .338 cartridges was issued to the best marksman in the platoon. Careth Belisha was 12 platoon's best shot and was hence ordered to put rounds through the Zeke tank's vision slits to try and scare out any Zekes if they were hiding inside. Observing from inside his bunker, Simon Corta watched through his glasses as each sharp _crack_ of Belisha's LAR was followed by an impact on the glass. Five rounds were fired in total, all landing precisely where they were aimed.

"I'd recommend him for advanced marksmen training, Sarn't," Corta commented.

"Paperwork's ready sir," Molchan said, already ahead of his officer on the matter.

"Good man."

"I think he could handle a section too."

"Paperwork's ready, sir."

Corta smiled, thankful that he had a good sergeant he could rely on. Meanwhile, Belisha was being congratulated on his marksmanship, something he repeatedly tried to deflect with a new-found modesty that was quite different to his usual confident bravado. Maybe it was to do with the fact that Aimo, his section leader, was there monitoring him and making sure Belisha did not get too big for his boots. "Nah, anyone could've done that," Belisha grinned.

"With optics certainly. You're firing with the old iron sights and you can hit targets downrange we can't even see," Aimo said. "You can shoot, Elisha. At least there's one thing going for you."

Cyrano added, "I would still rather have him on this side of the wire than the other."

"Does CQMS want these back?" Belisha picked up the half-open box of AP cartridges.

"Keep 'em. If they go through tank periscopes like that then they'll wreck engines easily. Worried about those guntrucks making a dash through our lines…"

Keeping the special ammunition, Belisha sat down and began to field-strip his .338. "Higher powder load in 'em. Fouls the barrel easier."

"Aah, never been fond of the old autoguns." Cyrano's knee jiggled up and down as he perched on a crate. "Our cavalry carbines were treats. Never had a misfire or jam. As long as there was sunlight then ammunition was never a concern. Of course our biggest problem was keeping the horses fed. If food was scarce for us on Nemtess then what could they eat?" Realising he was going off on a tangent, Cyrano stopped.

"Aren't them horses dangerous?" Belisha asked, dipping his rifle's cleaning rod inside the barrel. "A mate o' mine got kicked in the 'ead by some four-legged thing. Can't remember what it was called. Might've been a horse."

"Was he alright?" Cyrano looked up concernedly.

"No, he went loopy after that. Stopped speaking and started acting like a baby."

"…I meant the animal."

"They put it down. Dangerous to society it was – that's what they said."

"How do you know they put it down?"

"Because I did it. Boltgun straight to the brain, never felt a thing."

Aimo, still listening, laughed in derision. "A bolter, are you joking?"

"Wha–? Nah, not them seventy-five cal beasts, this one was pneumatic, powered by compressed air. Basically this retractable bolt would shoot forwards with enough force to punch a hole in something. It was perfect for livestock and whatnot. Far too quick a process to cause any pain."

Looking disheartened, Cyrano shuffled his feet closer together.

"Focus on your rifle, Elisha," Aimo glared. He sympathised fully with Cyrano on the matter of service animals, having been present when the Atreides Cavalry had rendered their four-legged companions unusable to the enemy. He could only imagine the pain Cyrano and the other horsemen had felt over losing their mounts. "Remember the litany of maintenance, Corporal."

"If I'm reciting that then…" Belisha trailed off. Casual conversations died away as grunts' outstretched ears eschewed listening to their fellow platoon members owing to the noticeable increase in noise levels to the north.

Vehicles were approaching. Their engines growing louder, topping the bone-jarring thuds of Zeke's artillery even. Quietly, 12 Platoon stood-to, crowding firesteps and sharing out ammunition with one another for the upcoming brass swap. Twisting the rotating drum forwards on his Rekyl gun, Aimo set his sights to 300 yards. "For what we are about to receive," he muttered. A tap on his shoulder and Molchan was there.

"Keep 'em on a tight leash. No wasting rounds."

"Roger," Aimo replied mechanically.

"They're doing well, Garst. Let's keep the performance up."

Sharp, frenzied bursts of automatic gunfire added to the noise of battle. Only it did not come from the north where the hidden Zekes were preparing to attack, rather the south. Dismayed and not a little concerned, Aimo turned and looked over his shoulder, finding every other man in the trench had done the same.

"Keep watch on your sector," Molchan, the only man whose attention was not taken by the fighting to the south, barked. "Look to your front."

The worry that Zeke was slowly surrounding the base on every side was felt keenly by the men of 12 Platoon, several men making the sign of the aquila and whispering prayers. Aimo, appearing as unconcerned as Molchan, shot him a glance. Cannon Company was in serious trouble. That was plainly obvious to anyone with even the most fragile grasp in tactics. The platoon sergeant met Aimo's eyes briefly then strode off to enforce discipline in the other sections. _He knows,_ Aimo thought. And if Molchan knew then Corta did too. Rakka would be overrun unless a miracle happened.

Captain Meller, the moment he heard the reports to the south, ordered Wharton to contact battalion headquarters. "…I say again, automatic weapons fire south of my callsign's location. Over," Meller said, making sure to repeat himself so Jark got the picture.

"Zero Alpha. Negative, Three Alpha, there are no enemy units south of your callsign's location. Over."

"Three. I can hear an engagement taking place south of my callsign's location. Are there any friendly callsigns near to my callsign? Over."

"Zero Alpha. Negative, Three Alpha. No friendly callsigns in vicinity of your callsign. Over."

A biting, profanity-laden reply was on Meller's lips when more firing began, this time to the west. _Hill 558_ , Meller realised. This was Zeke's final assault. "Three. My callsign is at present under threat from a combined infantry and armoured force many times our number. We are cut off. Do you understand the situation on the ground here? Unless you have any support other than moral to give me then I am signing off. Do not expect further transmissions. Over." Furiously holding his tongue, Meller waited, inwardly imploring headquarters to send relief in any form. Outside, the combined crackling of rifles and stuttering bursts of automatics – 11 Platoon – was seeping into the CP. Was it his own imagination, or was the floor of the CP shaking, shaking over the trample of thousands of boots?

"Zero Alpha. Observe your orders. The Emperor protects. Out." A metallic click and the line went dead.

"Colonel!" Meller snarled, spittle flying from his mouth. It was wasted breath as headquarters had closed the line.

"Nothing, sir." Wharton played with the vox set. "Jark's off the air."

Headquarters was abandoning them, Meller realised, feeling a nasty stab of anguish in his lower abdomen. Wiping the spit-covered receiver he handed it back to Wharton and scooped up his Kantrael from the table. "On me, Wharton. You too, Azar."

"Is your battalion sending relief?" the reporter, Herle, who had unofficially attached himself to the company asked.

"No," Meller said frankly. "Were you even authorised to come and report here?"

"Well, it's a bit late to leave now, sir. I figured I'd stick it out with this lot."

"I suppose I can't stop you. Write what you see. Just tell me you've had some training."

"I qualified on an M-36, sir." Herle wiggled the stub revolver holstered at his hip. "Not sure how much use this plinker will be though.

"You're safety's not guaranteed here, you know."

"I wouldn't worry about me, sir. I'll let Zeke know I'm a hotshot civilian journalist. Just hope he doesn't know there are no civvies on Cadia."

"Fine, fine. You can stay here or stick with me. Do not obstruct anyone or Emperor help you. Ready, Azar?"

Standing ready with his Lecta, Azar nodded eagerly.

"Sir?" Wharton twisted in his seat, his hands over his headset. "Me too?"

"Nothing more from the battalion now, so fetch your weapon and cover. Bring the vox carrier too."

Jumping to his feet, Wharton scrambled to find his Kantrael. "Yessir."

On the way out of the CP, Meller, Wharton, Herle, and Azar bumped into Ral Bleak who came clattering down the steps, his service weapon slung over his shoulder and Unit One medical bag in his arms. "Sir, Captain."

"How are our casualties?"

Pausing to take a breath, Ral said, "the aid station's overflowing. I would like permission to move our casualties into the CP. There's more room there, sir."

Meller agreed to Ral's request immediately then took off with his party to 11 Platoon's sector. Skirting around grunts hugging the sandbag walls, Meller searched for Morgan Ehle or his platoon sergeant. The unholy racket of the platoon's three .50 Cals, all of which were covering the slope of 558 that faced Rakka, made all communication outside of screaming into ears impossible. After continuously trying to make his intentions known, Meller was pointed further down the trench where he came face to face with Ehle's sergeant. "Mister Ehle around, Sarn't?" Meller asked once inside a dugout where the cacophony was dulled. Meller's ears ached from the pain of hearing the stubbers and his voice sounded quieter than normal.

"Mister Ehle took shrapnel, sir." 11 Platoon's sergeant had also suffered minor hearing loss. "He was taken to the aid station about ten minutes ago. Everything's in hand. Our main issue right now, sir, are those Zekes proceeding down Hill 558 in our direction."

"Show me." Meller peered through the dugout's viewing slit and glassed the grassy slopes.

"Five hundred yards to the top of that hill, sir." The sergeant motioned with his hand. "I estimate Zeke is in the range of seven-hundred to eight-fifty riflemen. They'll be here in about ten-fifteen minutes."

"Seen." Meller's throat dried out at the sight of hundreds of Zekes moving off the crest of 558 and down the eastern slope. At 500 yards it looked like a dark grey cloud was rolling over the hilltop. Through the glasses however the view was much clearer. The ill-disciplined swarm of cultists, and their giddying numbers gave far greater weight to the situation now that they had the high ground and would be supported by other elements attacking on different flanks.

"Wharton," Meller called the signaller forwards. "Get me Ten Platoon."

Working the bulky set from his shoulders, Wharton fiddled with the set whilst casting worried glances out of the bunker's slit.

"Take the extra second to do it right, Wharton," Meller said gently. "I need Staff Sergeant Perandis."

Once he had established comms with 10 Platoon Wharton passed the plastic bag holding the handset to Meller.

"Three Alpha. Three-One Alpha, do you have contact? Over."

Perandis replied, "Three-One Alpha. Negative at this time. No visual contact, only sound. Those tanks that overran the OP are now north of my callsign. Over."

"Three Alpha. Roger. Be vigilant. Out."

Hearing the fizz and crack of incoming fire, Meller ordered Wharton to contact 12 Platoon. Corta was the sole platoon officer still able-bodied, Meller thought. He was not too worried about the absence of Morgan Ehle. His sergeant knew what he was doing and could command a platoon as effectively as any officer, possibly even better.

"Mister Corta, sir." Wharton gave the handset back to Meller.

"Three Alpha. Three-Three Alpha, do you have contact? Over."

Simon Corta's reply came inbetween fuzzy cracklings that distorted his speech. "Three-Three Alpha. Enemy contact one five zero yards north-east of my callsign. Enemy strength, your callsign. Over."

 _My callsign?_ Corta was coming under attack from a body of at least 150 men, a mere fraction of Zeke's force. Just how many men could he afford to waste?

A runner entered the bunker then and approached Meller. "Sir, Mister Corta sent me to inform you that Twelve Platoon has contact."

"Understood, Private. Off you go." Meller gave a quick-fire explanation of the withdrawal plan to 11 Platoon's sergeant and was relieved when the NCO took it all in his stride.

"And only pull out when you're on the verge of being overrun. Not before," Meller advised before departing. "Remember the detonators!"

Painfully conscious of the gross imbalance of manpower, Meller got hold of Azar. "I need all the cooks, every single one of them, mechanics too, and even CQMS to fall out and draw rifles. Every trigger-finger must be on the firing line, iggery. Understood, Azar?"

"Got it." Azar doubled off as quick as he could over the slippery mud.

10 Platoon was fully alert and standing by for Zeke's attack. Perandis met Meller coming the other way down the trench. "I want you to send a section to reinforce both Eleven and Twelve."

"Are you sure, sir?" Perandis looked uneasy at the thought of weakening the north flank. "We'll only have a dozen men left to hold this sector."

"Zeke's gonna be pressing hard from the west and east. They want to envelop us. Pick your sections and get 'em posted where they need to go."

Perandis called to the nearby Draino. "Dranno, take your section over to reinforce Eleven Platoon."

Hearing his platoon sergeant's order, Dranno acknowledged with a small nod. "One Section, retire from the firing line. On me."

"Katecka, take Three Section and report to Mister Corta."

As well as organising the reinforcements for the other platoons, Meller had to be certain that Perandis fully understood the plan. "Detonators?"

"All wired, sir."

"You fire them only when—"

"Only when we're about to be overrun, sir, got it." Perandis grinned. "Then we fall back."

"You know where?"

"CP."

"Outstanding." Meller trusted Perandis to brief 10 Platoon on the plan without needing to be reminded by him.

Hastily following the section sent to 12 Platoon, Meller heard 11's riflemen open up on Zeke, their fire adding to the fusillades from the crew-served weapons. _Have I done the right thing here?_ Meller agonised over his decision to weaken his centre in favour of bolstering the flanks. There was no right option to take; at least that was how he saw it. The situation was quite impossible.

12 Platoon was exchanging fire with multiple Zeke guns which were firing from directly east and north-east. The camouflaged weapons were making it difficult to locate and suppress. Observing with Corta, Meller seethed at Zeke's sudden grasp of infantry tactics. The automatic weapons were firing out of synch with one another so that whenever one stopped to reload, others would keep the air filled with lead, covering the mercenaries as they advanced by platoon.

"How long can you hold?"

"It won't matter if Zeke's rolling over our flanks, will it?" Corta, his eyes pressed firmly to his glasses, replied.

"Bastards have finally pulled their collective heads out of their arses," Meller observed. Zeke's assault was driving forwards from the east, avoiding the shell-scarred, corpse-filled waste to the north. The four Mark VIIs were staying out of the fight, choosing to give cover from the trees over leading the glorious armoured spearhead the tank platoon commander may have envisaged. The tank cannons were little more than nuisances though, being the wrong type to deal with dug in infantry.

"We have contact to the south as well," Meller said quietly. "We may have to improvise if this all goes tits-up."

"Are you staying or going, Captain?" Corta picked up an M-36, aimed it out of the narrow slit, and fired. It was impossible to tell whether or not he had hit anything as the leap-frogging platoons came on undeterred.

"We'll be moving around platoons." Meller felt the hammer-like _thuds_ of the .50 Cal team on the roof above his head. "Are the detonators ready?"

"Yeah. We're waiting for your go."

"I'll leave it down to you, Simon. Just be aware if Perandis pulls out, you do too."

"Back to the CP, sir?"

"Iggery, alright?"

Corta, distracted by Zeke, returned fire alongside his platoon. Their output was matched and returned in even greater magnitude by the enemy weapons teams.

"One more thing." Meller grasped Corta by the shoulder. "Keep the bunkers clear of men. I don't want any inside if they cave in."

"Yes, sir." Corta shouted without lowering his rate of fire.

"Good luck to you."

Wharton, gesticulating urgently, thrust the handset at Meller once he was back outside. "Sir, it's the section on the gate."

Tilting his cover sideways, Meller tucked the handset into his ear, ramming a finger into the other as the mortars started to stonk the base again. "Three Alpha." His concern that the lightly-defended south flank was about to cave in was confirmed when the section commander began wailing that Zeke was rolling up in heavy numbers from the south. "If Zeke breaks in, we've all had it. Can you hold?"

"They won't get past us, sir. We'll give 'em a good fight."

 _Fight they'll have to,_ Meller understood. He also understood that a great many mens' lives would be lost during the battle for Rakka. _Will history remember this little scrape? Or will we all be as forgotten as those many hundreds of Zekes lying out there already?_

* * *

 ** _13:11_**

With the clever one gone, all that was left of the mercenaries were bull-headed thugs without a single brain cell amongst them. How else could Izuru Numerial have folded herself into their company without anyone recognising her? The thick, fur-lined jacket she was wearing over her oversuit bulked up her body considerably, though to even the simplest mind it was plain as to her sex. The cap she wore had its earflaps down, and a pair of dust goggles obscured her upper face. Completing the human disguise, a black neckwarmer was pulled up over her chin. Izuru's only real issue was that there were few human women over six foot and none of the female cultists were even close to her height so she stooped wherever possible and adopted a slouch quite different to her usual gait. A hollow chuckle arose from her throat as the temptation to laugh out loud at the human's idiocy got the better of her.

The envelopment of the human firebase was underway. Staccato bursts carried over from the large hill the cultists had overrun. Slower, sharper reports of the more-disciplined mercenary platoons came from the east. Loud crashes of mortars took the centre: the firebase. Its location was marked by a pillar of black and grey smoke which was seeping out across the land wherever the wind took it. Even hundreds of yards away to the south the smell of the fighting was strong, a bitter, ashen taste that stuck to skin like a thin, itchy powder. Above, the sun in the sky was being obscured by the excess of battle, dimming the light.

The silence amongst the mercenaries allowed Izuru to perform her pre-battle meditation. To onlookers it appeared that she had closed her eyes for a brief moment only. But inside her mind she had called for the god of battle, Khaela Mensha Khaine, to bless her for the upcoming slaughter. _Instil within me your rage, O Bloody-handed One. Grant me a heady desire for death. And trouble me not with the loss of pathetic human life._ Prodding back at Izuru though was sentimentality and the admiration for the pluck the humans were so full of. The fondness for the father and the son, whom she had taken shrapnel for, tugged at her conscience, as did the muted pain in her side and belly where the metal was embedded. On some days it hurt terribly. Others it was an irritation. It was always there though. Too fond of the humans was what she was guilty of, enflaming the aloof, arrogant Eldar within her, arousing a petulant rage to make her want to hit herself repeatedly for her crime. Further eating away at Izuru were the two young humans she felt the most for, the quiet, troubled Larn, and the other, Aimo, a father too; so desperate to return to the wife and child he was. Could she look upon their faces through her lasgun's sights as she would have done normally?

Strong, sweetly-scented smoke drifted over her. The final few cigars and narcotic Iho sticks were sampled before being stubbed out. Rangers tapped magazines and straightened links, knowing a kink or jammed round might kill them. Cultists passed around tiny injectors, infusing their blood with powerful painkillers and other drugs meant to psych them up for battle, bringing out relieved grins in some. Others, aroused, gasped with glee. A burst of an engine and a guntruck wove through the gathered assault force. The looming form of Marcos Hassid stood with one foot up on the side panel, holding onto the chunky spade grips of the heavy Krupnok stubber that was bolted to the flatbed.

"Get ready." He cried, sticking his whistle into his mouth.

Poised amidst the huddle of crouching humans, Izuru watched the guntruck bump and bounce up to the vanguard of the company. It would have been simple to snipe the big man at the same time Izuru had shot Talvera, though Talvera had always been her focus, being of a slightly higher intellect than his subordinates. Only the big human posed any further threat to her. And with any luck, the Imperials would do the job for her.

"Stand up!" An unnamed Ranger officer signalled. As one, the mercenaries rose, the cultists following their lead with customary slowness. Joining Hassid's guntruck in the van were three vehicles, one carrying a lascannon and the rest stubbers.

"Advance behind the vehicles."

The attack began at a quick trot. Some Rangers were bent low, making their profiles as small as possible, others stood up straight, unconcerned. Displaying a similar disdain for death were many cultists, who, like they had done before, broke ranks and meandered about, keeping their grip on their weapons loose. Keeping her spacing, Izuru noticed the sloping khaki berets of the handful of Gellen Highlanders bobbing up and down and was surprised they still lived. It would not be for long though. Izuru had no illusions that the assault would be easy. Prayers muttered by nearby humans piqued her curiosity. As they had renounced the God-Emperor of Mankind then who was it that they prayed to? The piercing blast of the whistle drove off her thoughts of human deities. Thunder arose around her from the tramp of boots and warcries rising in the humans' throats. The growl of the guntruck's engines grew in pitch. Muzzle flash lit up the smoke as cultists fired weapons into the air. The surge of bodies infected Izuru, and she was running too, upwards and over the crest of a shallow hill then down the short slope towards the besieged firebase.

* * *

Dislodged by the pounding the base was taking, dirt fell from the roof of the Pen, spreading around inside, forming a fine mist. Peter and Woulter set their shoulders into the heavy door, drawing back and slamming into it fruitlessly time and time again. "Come on, lad, we need your help here!" Woulter shouted to the cowering soldier. Trying to dig himself deeper into the earth, the soldier covered his ears as the banging outside drew closer. It was almost directly above their heads.

"Help us, James!" Peter reached down and shook him by the shoulder. "Your mates want you with them. Don't abandon them."

Shaking his head stubbornly, the soldier dragged himself away.

"Well roll over and die like an animal then!" Peter kicked at the door angrily. "We have to fight this."

As admirable as Peter's newfound courage was, Woulter was aware that only a certain kind of manner would work with a soldier frozen by fear. "That is the worst display of cowardice I have ever seen in my entire life, soldier. You can't even be a coward effectively. Your fellow soldiers will die, and it will be entirely your fault because you gave up on them. By cowering in here you have forsaken your vows as a hard-wired, life-taking grunt. All those promises you made have been for nothing. NOTHING!" For emphasis, Woulter shook the soldier vigorously. "Snap out of it, that's an order, soldier." Woulter's officer act had paid dividends when James, plaintively crying, tried to lash out at Woulter. "Hit me like you mean it," Woulter barked.

Gasping through tears, James balled both fists and struck Woulter's arms and chest.

"This door's gotta go. Stand up and help us." Woulter pulled James to his feet. "Put your back into it."

Incomprehensible grunts and moans came out as James attacked the bolted door alongside Peter and Woulter. Praying for help to come, Woulter heard the multiple firefights raging from all corners of the base.

* * *

"HELP, THEY'RE COMING FROM THE SOUTH." Someone screamed over Wharton's vox as Meller's party left 12 Platoon's sector. Meller jumped in fright as a colossal explosion of black earth tore up the area in front of the lightly-manned patch of line 10 Platoon were manning, throwing a massive shower of dirt over the dead zone.

"Shit, they're breaking through." Wharton cried, fumbling for his weapon.

"Calm down," Meller snapped. He was listening for the other platoons, hoping they had heard and were just about to pull out. "There," he said as 11 Platoon's buried mortars were detonated in the cultist's faces. "Into the CP, gentlemen, on the double."

Simon Corta, seeing the cataclysmic detonation, ordered his reinforced platoon to hold on until the mercenaries were within spitting distance. "Sir?" Sergeant Molchan, his expression steady, gripped the detonator crank. Beneath it wires trailed away to the buried mortar shells.

"Hold." Corta felt his M-36 sputter and die. The mercenaries' bayonets were glinting in the pale sunlight. Their eyes and teeth were visible. On the roof above, the .50 Cal played its last piece, the gunners crying for a freshly-spaced barrel.

"They're within range, sir."

"Hold."

"Sir, we need ammo." Grunts' trembling hands fixed bayonets in place and drew back to stab upwards as Zeke made the final push.

"Sir?" Molchan's teeth were set.

"NOW!"

Twisting the crank, Molchan pressed a hand over one ear and hunched over. Corta did the same and held his breath. What was possibly the biggest explosion he had ever heard ripped through his ears. Evil, choking smoke billowed through the dugout, blanketing everything. The roar, indescribably loud, muted everything. Frozen in the hunched-over posture, Corta felt Molchan pull at him. Molchan's mouth moved but nothing came out. Peering outside at the view of destruction, Corta saw, through heavily-blurred vision, Zeke's flanking force had had a huge chunk of its manpower torn to shreds by the improvised fougasses. Not all had been wasted though. A large portion – probably the second and third wave – had been outside the killzone. They were dazed, but it would not last.

"Fall back. Go!" Corta mimed in Molchan's face, imploring him to get the order out to the platoon. Fleeing the dugout, Corta coughed in the dirty air, his senses muddled. "You men, withdraw to the CP, on the double." His voice was one of a drunks'. "Retreat!"

* * *

The section guarding the gate was pinned down immediately by the unending tide of Zekes rushing up from the south. Chattering from inside the concrete defence, the single Rekyl was outstripped by the combined stubber and rifle fire. As pointless as it was to shoot, the effect of firing a rifle at a giant mob of ants, the dozen men kept on, determined to hold onto their precarious position.

"Rekyl team, displace," the corporal in command opened his mouth in shock when he recognised a lascannon and its bulging capacitor mounted to the back of one of the trucks. "Get outta there!"

The Rekyl's distinct flared muzzle slid backwards from the firing slit just as a thin beam of light pulsed from the lascannon's barrel, striking the concrete and making it boil over, gouging a wide hole. The red-hot edges of the concrete peeled back and dripped, melting before the eyes. Having withdrawn in the nick of time, the Rekyl team crossed the road and bundled their weapon onto the sandbag barricade, resuming firing without pause. With the lascannon recharging, the truck withdrew. Another, mounting a Krupnok, cut across the charging Zekes, the massive form of the gunner aiming at the barricade. The Krupnok fired, producing a terrific muzzle flash, the heavy .50 calibre slugs blowing out entire chunks of the concrete which constituted nothing more than flimsy paper when beset with the weapon's deadly power.

"Sorry, Corp, we're out of ammo," the gunners said when the Rekyl went quiet.

"Not to worry. Fall back to the CP, the lot of you. Iggery!"

Doubling up to the CP, the sounds of Zeke crashing through the gate in their ears, they met Captain Meller who waved them down the CP steps urgently. "Is that the last one of your section, Corporal?"

"Yes, sir."

"No-one else from my platoon, Captain," Corta said, ducking as a mortar barrage struck again. "Everyone from Eleven is too."

Zeke was almost upon them. The first line of fougasses had blunted the vanguard, but had left the follow-up waves intact. It was they whom Meller could hear tearing up the base, throwing grenades into bunkers and finishing off all of the wounded men who were lost during the retreat. The nearby _crump_ of a satchel charge going off inside a bunker prompted Meller to order Corta down into the CP with him following a moment later.

Squeezed with more men than it could reasonably hold, the CP was filled with hot breath and the musk of bodies zipped up in flak jackets which instantly made Meller sweat. Ordering the door to be sealed and barricaded, Meller stepped calmly over the bodies of the men too badly wounded to walk and picked up the detonator from where it sat on the table.

"Give Zeke a moment to make his way up here, sir," Staff Sergeant Perandis said. Like with his men, Perandis had taken numerous superficial wounds to the face and arms. Blood shone through the grime coating his skin.

"Standby." Meller inserted the crank into the detonator. A few men put their fingers in their ears, anticipating the loud noise above ground. Ral Bleak, frozen beside the stretcher-bound, held up bags of plasma and glanced at the ceiling, saying something inaudible. The grunt's breathing became ragged. Someone stifled a sob. Listening to the clatters and movement of Zeke above them, Meller gripped the crank and twisted. The explosions above ground shook the CP mercilessly, causing the light bulbs to flicker. Imagining the devastation inflicted upon the mobs of Zeke swarming over the bunker, Meller stuck out his hand and was presented with the last detonator. Meller tried searching for words, one last compliment to his mens' fortitude. Banging on the CP door as rifle butts set about it broke off his chain of thought. With the second line of explosives ineffective at driving away Zeke, it was down to the last ring of mortar shells buried amongst the sandbag walls outside the CP. Crouching down low with the detonator, Corta and Perandis doing the same, Meller looked around the faces of his men, all making themselves as small as possible, tucking their chins into their flak jackets and pressing their covers down tightly. From within the packed bodies a little voice could be heard singing a children's rhyme. _Bless their souls,_ Meller prayed, and turned the crank. Holding his breath in, Meller felt the world collapse inwards with a roar as all the lights went out.

* * *

The shockwave of the second line of mortars and Comp-C rolled over the Pen, rattling the door. "What was that?" Peter clutched at his heart fearfully.

"That wasn't a mortar," Peter's father said.

"Mortar shells stuffed with RDX and rigged to blow," I replied breathlessly. "Thought if we got overrun it'd catch Zeke off-guard."

"How much RDX?"

"All of it," I said without missing a beat. "Hope it's knocked seven shades outta them. They 'aven't blown the last line yet, so we might not need to."

"Last line?"

"Three waves," I explained. "Last one's rigged right outside the CP – c'mon, push." I redoubled my efforts against the door, drawing back my boot and kicking it together with Peter and his father. The out-of-character tirade from the normally-quiet father had galvanised me. "When that goes off it's gonna sound like an earthquake. Anyone outside's gonna be Zeke paste."

"What about in here?" Peter shrunk away from the door as if it might be shot back in his face.

"I dunno but I don't wanna be here when it goes, so bloody push."

"Wait, what's that?" Peter's father froze; a mask of horror on his face. "Peter."

"Dad."

Against the door I felt the rumbling of the shockwave. Throwing myself back, the door was battered by the horrific blast, shaking it on its hinges. Cracking and buckling, the ceiling supports above our heads collapsed, showering us with dust and earth. My scream was muffled as the roof caved in, reducing it to a pathetic whine of a trapped animal about suffocate. A hand pushed through the earth, attaching to my arm and pulling. Struck by an insane urge to fight, I floundered as if drowning in water, inhaling earth that was pressing against my face and chest. Through the muck surrounding me I heard one of the Tabors moaning, trying to fight like I was. The moans in my ears grew shorter and quieter as strength ebbed, mind accepted the inevitability, and the air ran out, starving the body of life.


	27. Chapter 26

**Rakka, 13:22**

Wet, crystalline blood oozed down Izuru's upper lip, slowly dribbling down her cheeks as gravity took its hold. A greasy mess of hair was pressed against her face, partly squashing her nose. The bulk of the human lying on top of her and facing the sky stunk of sweat and his hair was damp with perspiration. Silence covered the landscape. Working a limp arm from beneath the body, Izuru reached up to her covered ear and found, through the raised neck-warmer, that it wet and sticky beneath her gloves. Pressing on her ear, Izuru heard nothing and realised she had lost all sense of sound. Bereft of her usual grace, Izuru pushed the dead human off her and rolled over onto her side. Izuru's mouth and chin were covered in her own blood and she could feel her face swelling where the human's skull had collided with hers as he was thrown back by the blast. Opening and closing her mouth - there was blood inside - Izuru began climbing across the bodies of the cultists and mercenaries.

From breaking through the undefended gateway and until halfway up the gentle rise in the ground, it had appeared the Rangers would capture the firebase with little hassle. The first explosion, ear-splitting, had caught the most aggressive cultists and a handful Rangers, boldly taking the point, in their faces, vaporising those closest to the centre of the blast and grievously wounding dozens of those behind, either from the concussion or fragmentation. The wounded men, falling and tottering out of the swirling black haze, bleated like the wounded animals they were, holding crippled limbs and ragged stumps, unable to speak coherently from shock. Barrelling into the sudden influx of wounded, the guntruck still carrying Hassid halted and he gave another blast of his whistle, exhorting the waves of cultists to spread out across the base. The mobs were accompanied by Rangers with satchel charges meant for collapsing bunkers, this they set to work with relish. Hanging back and patiently waiting for an opportunity Izuru looked on as Hassid and the mercenaries rushed to surround the enemy's command post where the last holdouts were, clambering on the roof and probing for any vents or windows. Indispersed with the dull _thuds_ of the satchel charges going off inside dugouts, the smack of picks on earth and bangs of rifle butts on steel rang out. Nobody expected the third explosion, the final death throes of the dying beast hiding just underneath the surface. Izuru did not see, nor did she hear the sound. She was knocked backwards by the shockwave and instantly deafened by the roar, blacking out when she hit the ground then coming to with the human lying on top of her.

Swimming upwards through a sea of dead bodies, Izuru inhaled blood through her nostrils and blinked in the warm, dust-ridden air that was thick with soot and smoke. The light from the sun was almost absent and the day looked to be drawing to a close even though it was still early afternoon. It was though a monstrous being had picked up the firebase, shaken it, and dropped it back in place, uprooting any human-made structures and crushing them, scattering the fragments everywhere and leaving nothing but desolation where trenches, fortifications and bunkers had once stood. Piles of bodies blanketed the earth, covering it entirely, so much so that not a single bare patch could be seen. Where there were no bodies there was blood, blood on the ground, blood collecting in pools, and blood spattered over heaps of what had so-recently been imperial constructs. Human blood stained Izuru too. The khaki assault vest she wore underneath her jacket was stained and dripping; her was jacket too. Everything had been violated by humans.

By whatever miracle that had spared her life, others were fortunate too in that they had escaped the worst of the explosions. Outnumbering the dead were the wounded, humans lying on their backs, on their sides, or existing as trembling limbs poking out of corpse piles, being too weak to claw their way out from the suffocating crush. So few were the number of unwounded humans that Izuru could count their number on her fingers and still come up short, being near-devastated by the apparent self-sacrifice the imperials had committed. _How could anyone survive in the centre of_ _an explosion of such magnitude?_

Bringing herself into a kneeling position, Izuru caught sight of a cultist sitting over a dead comrade with both of his hands clasped together as if in prayer. The bald, pierced human had his eyes fixed on the sky and was muttering words. Again Izuru wondered who the cultists prayed to and whether the god would pay heed to the insignificant little being that dwelt in the middle of a scene of horrific slaughter. With his respects paid, the cultist unclipped a bedraggled cloak covering his shoulders and covered up his friend, bowing his head and remaining beside him. Another unwounded human, this one a Ranger, got up from where he was sitting, taking great care in the process to keep blood from staining his trousers. Not a single trace of pain was in his expression, only a mild urgency like he had lost something and wanted to find it quickly in case someone else lay claim to it. Carefully placing his feet so as not to accidentally tread on someone else, the mercenary bent down and took a severed arm from off the ground. Izuru saw the scraps of sleeve blowing in the wind, and the gap where the human's left arm had been. The wet material was as red as his beret. Sitting back down the human examined his arm as if pondering on what he could do with it, trying foolishly to stick it back in place before realising, with a look of acute distress, his folly. A near-naked, blood-drenched Ranger hobbled into view. Where his clothes had been blasted off, entire chunks of flesh were blown away, exposing muscles and pulsing nerves to the elements; a hideous mixture of purple, red and blue. Grey skin, scraped off from the soles of his bare feet, trailed away behind him in bloody footprints. A broken bayonet was clutched in his hand, this he swung about him in a languid manner, his mouth slackening, showing the crumbling teeth inside. Not a word escaped his torn lips. The human within was gone.

Marcos Hassid and whoever else was directly on top of, or beside the dugout, had vanished, their bodies reduced to nothing but great bloodstains coating the sides and roof of the collapsed dugout. All that was left was a solitary beret, the flash on it bent, dull, and fast growing sticky with human blood. Small clouds of earth were thrown upwards around it, the imperials hacking their way out of their would-be tomb. A fist tightened around Izuru's lungs as she imagined them trapped in the darkness, terrified and desperate to see light and taste air. Falling onto her front, Izuru propped herself up and coughed from a tickle in her throat. Blood was spat out, from her mouth or from deeper within her she could not tell. The shrapnel was cutting into her side. The chemical sealant that bound the sides of the wound in her belly had worn off. Contemptuous though it seemed, Izuru conceded and admitted inwardly that her denial about needing any form medical aid, even if the only providers were the humans, was foolish.

The first imperial soldier broke the surface, his tiny head rearing upwards and gulping down huge lungfuls of air. Bare-headed and with a face blackened by dirt, the soldier crawled on all fours until his entire body was free, shortly after turning to assist others who were behind him. _Is it Larn, Aimo, Peter, Woulter?_ Izuru scanned the increasing number of new faces, her heartbeat rising. Bar a select few, human soldiers looked damnably alike, being mostly dark-haired, thin, and short of stature. But now, with heavy quantities of earth and muck darkening their uniforms, they were even more indiscernible than usual. All that crawled up towards daylight were without helmet, body armour, or weapons; most likely they abandoned them to make their frantic dig to safety easier. Not fazed in the slightest by the resurgence of their enemies, the cultists and Rangers – those within view – looked on; all desire to fight having evaporated. The imperials too were overtaken by the very same passiveness, having undergone a similar traumatic episode, losing the will to fight.

 _Stalemate?_ Izuru sighed. Glancing down at her chest, Izuru worked a hand beneath her vest and felt her heart fluttering, unexpectedly rising in tempo when a human shape, wandering around in the ever-shifting smoke, appeared in the distance. The dishevelled figure of Larn stumbled around, turning about himself as he took in the ruin that had befallen the base. Without helmet or flak vest bulking Larn up, he looked very small and childlike. In the brief second he turned in Izuru's direction, she caught sight of his face. It was the embodiment of an empty room, haunted and lifeless. Underneath his dirty, windswept hair muck was speckled across his forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin. Pale white eyes blinked slowly, wet from tears which were running down both cheeks, leaving shiny trails through the dirt. Larn opened his mouth and called out, swallowing and wiping his face on his sleeve. Still unable to hear, Izuru read Larn's lips. He called for Aimo, others too. His semi-dazed wandering was taking him further afield, away from the other survivors whom he could not see. Huddling together, Peter and Woulter were too focused on each other to pay attention to Larn.

 _What is he doing?_ Izuru caught her breath, shuddering at the sight of Larn swaying like a drunk. He pulled something from his collar, the pair of identity tags attached to a cord. These he ripped off, examining them carefully before letting them fall at his side. Stunned, Izuru vaulted to her feet, fully intent on bringing Larn back to his senses, no matter the risk of revealing herself.

Skirting the gathering imperials, Izuru picked a path through the bodies, uncaring of the blood on the soles of her boots and the sticky trail she was leaving behind her. Woulter recoiled away from Izuru as she approached; trying to shield Peter from who he believed was an attacker. Tugging the neck warmer down below her chin, Izuru raised a hand to waist level _. I am with you_. Exhaling gratefully, Woulter nodded and put an arm around the teary-eyed Peter. Relief briefly crossed Izuru's features before she replaced the disguise. The Tabor's safety was a weight off her shoulders, alleviating the fear she was burdened with. Larn and Aimo clung to her conscience. Izuru felt as if she was in some way responsible for the both of them now; as Keladi was.

A sick feeling was rising in her gut. Still some distance away, Larn was looking on the ground, searching around for something. _Does he believe he is all alone?_ Izuru could see a few other humans – imperials – beginning to venture away from the mound they had dug their way out of. Their aimless direction would surely take them towards Larn, if only he would regain his senses. Very wary of the likelihood that the humans would observe and open fire on her, Izuru gritted her teeth, slowing her pace to that of a gentle stroll. It would not do to be chased away now.

Smoke obscured Larn. Lessening, the wind dropped and the haze resettled. Cursing, Izuru tried to arouse her psychic presence to force the visibility to improve, trying to find the willpower to shove the curling smoke outward. Alas she could not focus, too wrought with misguided worry for the humans. A break in the murk happened at the same time the sunlight returned. Larn was in the middle of standing up straight, his gaze on two objects held in both hands. A seated gaggle of mercenaries had taken notice and had twisted around to look at the lone imperial soldier, eyeing him with the same resigned look of their enemies. Nobody made to shoot. An unspoken truce seemed to be in effect, all the way up until Larn dropped two thin metal pins.

Grenade pins.

A silent cry of anguish mixed with terror welling up in her contracting throat, Izuru launched herself forwards, seeing only the two primed grenades Larn gripped. Scrambling over one another to put as much distance between themselves and the grenades, the mercenaries scattered. Whilst they were desperate to run away, Izuru alone charged down on the suicidal Larn. Channelling all of her focus on the burning fuses she agonised over the length of time she had to reach Larn, disarm him and throw the bombs away. They had to be disposed of by throwing; there was no way to deactivate them once the spoons had flown off. Izuru formulised a rough plan on the spot, visualising the exact movements and strikes to remove the grenades from Larn's grasp, deliver them to an area without inflicting hurt on other humans and keeping him as well as her alive.

Nothing like outside interference hampering Izuru crossed her mind, so assured of her plan she was. The violent jerk at her leg disrupted her pace sending her sprawling on her hands and knees. Pulled straight behind Izuru, her right leg was rendered immobile by a wounded mercenary who had got a grip on her ankle. " _Help me_ ," he mouthed, half-buried inside a stack of his dead allies. A deep, burning hostility compelled Izuru to draw the Moses from her holster and aim it behind her. _Remove your grip, or I will kill you_. She said nothing, wishing the meddling human's mind fall to the full force of her psyker's rage.

Larn spread his arms, lifting his bowed head up, waiting for the fuses to run out. His back was to Izuru. Beating at the persistent hand with the butt of the Moses, Izuru dragged herself forwards, howling in frustration, her hearing still absent. Then the unlikeliest of occurrences gave her pause. Someone, a soldier she had never seen before, beat her to Larn, colliding with him and grappling for the grenades, forcing them out of his hands to roll in the dirt at their feet. The soldier, only a little taller than Larn and just as frail-looking, shoved him aside and jumped onto the grenades, gathering them both underneath his body, hugging them into his chest. The muffled explosions made his body leap up a foot into the air.

Aghast at the soldier's selflessness, Izuru struggled to comprehend what Larn had just done. The wilful sacrifice of the other soldier had prevented Larn from taking his own life. But in doing so the soldier's life had been lost, and it was Larn's fault. A furious, embittered rebuttal was forming in Izuru's mind when a near-missed shot slapped into a body closeby, drawing a stream of blood and galvanising her into action. Dropping her lasgun, Izuru hared away to the right, flinching when a second bullet creased her sleeve. The zig-zag pattern she took crossing the open ground to the east of the base protected her from the shots even as more rifles opened up, their rounds skipping through the mud at her heels and snapping between her legs; doggedly pursing her flight.

* * *

The performance of the wired-up mortar shells and RDX had vastly exceeded Mik Meller's expectations, so much so that he vowed to cite their efficiency in the after-action report. Future admin aside, the explosives had done their job well, terrifyingly well. The moment Meller's oxygen-starved head had burst out of the tunnel he realised that Zeke had not just been caught unawares by the explosives and decimated; he had been almost completely annihilated. That was not a word that he had used anywhere else in his entire career. But there it was. Zeke now failed to exist as a unit, and Meller's was still somewhat intact. _Have we won?_ Meller wondered whilst he was bending over and spitting out little hard bits of earth from his mouth. "Sound off," he said croakily once the remains of the company had been pulled out of the collapsed CP. Sixty men, fragments from each of the three infantry platoons and mortar battery, were able-bodied. It was unknown how many were killed, wounded, or missing. Ral Bleak did not take the loss of the wounded men well, reacting with surprising distress when told that it was impossible to dig the wounded out of the CP without proper excavation equipment. Meller ordered Ral to be physically restrained when he tried to burrow back down into the CP to try and haul out the stretcher cases one by one. "You'll only lose yourself. Then one of us will have to go down there and drag you out, Ral."

"Should we form a perimeter, sir?" Simon Corta – as dirtied up as the other men – asked through fits of coughing. He was trying very hard to keep his voice from quivering. Perandis, glowering through two mud-caked brows, immediately began to organise the able-bodied into parties.

"Agreed," Meller said, taking charge over the sorry scene. "Those men with rifles spread out and cover those without. Retrieve any enemy firearms, ammunition too, and bring them back here."

"What about Zeke?" Corta pointed out the miniscule number of Zekes only a stone's throw away who were untouched.

"Bring them in once the men have rearmed."

"If they give us trouble?"

Meller paused. "We've got no facilities to hold them."

Corta paled underneath his dirt mask, muttering, "I'm not sure I can order that. If think I could stand this butcher's yard more than once…"

A butcher's yard it was. The extent of the ghastly injuries the cultists and mercenaries had sustained was unreal to Meller. He had never seen it up close before. The curiously artificial innards that should have been bunched up inside the body were spread around in blue-grey, plastic-looking heaps. But it was the unmarked bodies that disturbed him the most. Pale and without a speck of blood staining their combats, the few Zekes like that looked to be asleep and able to wake up at any time. Why were they dead?

"We rang the dinner bell. They came calling," Joe Herle said glumly. He had not written anything. His cameras were on his chest, their lenses covered. The numbness related to the immediate aftermath of combat had the survivors of Rakka clamming up inside their shells, shutting emotions down and operating on auto-pilot. To try to comprehend was to go insane, Meller understood. The abandonment of the wounded hurt him. But in the CP it had been every man for himself. Command had dissolved when the lights went out and frenzied hands tried to dig their way out of the earth that was cascading onto heads. Meller, quietly ashamed, had been thinking only of himself. That was enough to hurt him deeply, his selfishness and desire for life even if it was to be at the expense of his mens'.

"Captain." Lance Corporal Belisha shook a machine pistol with a thin wire stock from his shoulder and handed it to Meller. "Plenty more where that came from."

"Thank you, Corporal," Meller said mechanically, taking the weapon and checking the chamber for brass. Seeing his men sitting around in varying stages of shock, Meller snapped at them. "Dammit, those of you that can walk, get on your feet. Rakka is overrun. I need you to police up these dead Zekes and our own men. Separate them out."

Wearily the ragged remains of C-for-Cannon dragged themselves to their feet and began working through the Zeke dead. Once in a while a rifle shot rang out, a grunt scaring off any Zekes who were nearby. Quietly objecting, a few privates stood around sullenly with their hands in their pockets wearing neither helmets nor body armour, most of them unarmed. It took much chivvying from the section leaders, most of whom were missing, and even when Perandis had to interfere there was a murmur of reluctance. Too few NCOs were still standing, Meller remarked. Corta and himself were the only officers left. Poor Morgan Ehle had been buried alive. Molchan from 12 Platoon was missing as was 11 Platoon's sergeant. In the company before it was not the business for officers to micromanage odds and sods. A handful of corporals and their lances were around though to see the orders were relayed, thank the Emperor. _What a right bloody shambles this has become._

A muffled burst of a grenade attracted shouts. Meller heard someone call contact and then the sharp crack of a .338. Hefting the unfamiliar machine pistol, Meller slipped down the broken slope of steel, mud and wood, practically sliding the last part. The flat pathways snaking around Rakka had been utterly wrecked, as had the bunkers, none of which were intact, all having collapsed inwards, either from enemy action or the outwards-facing charges. Passing grunts rifling through dead Zekes, Meller barked at one man who was working out a gold tooth with a pair of rusty pliers. It was Olen Azar. "Stop that, Azar. Get rid of that filth immediately."

Surprised, Azar stood up and let go of the cloth bag which, by the bulge in it, was almost full. "Sorry 'bout that, sir."

Meller was about to further reprimand Azar when a second shot sounded, causing him to forget Azar and make for the sound as quickly as he could. With so many bodies, and the ground slippery with blood, Meller was hard pressed not to trip and fall.

"What are you firing at, Private?" Meller snarled when the smoke was blown aside, revealing a bare-headed private who was aiming his .338 at something.

"Zeke chucked grenades at us then took off, sir, he's scarpering away through the mist," the private replied. "Brave lad over there jumped on 'em."

"Ral, over here! Where did you see him?" Meller opened the squashed pouch on his belt and brought up his field glasses.

"Contact." The private tracked a fleeing figure in a grey jacket that was about 100 yards away and zig-zagging. "Stand still, you bastard."

"Seen," said Meller, shouldering his machine pistol and squeezing the trigger. The weapon managed only two rounds before jamming up. More riflemen had arrived, carrying a motley assortment of captured weaponry, old semi-automatics and bolt-actions along with a few Kantraels and .338s. But very soon the Zeke was slipping amongst rock formations which took over from the relative flatness of the land and had dropped out of sight, having avoided the fire entirely.

Ral Bleak, hearing Meller's call, leapt down to where the soldier that had jumped on top of the grenades was lying. "It's Molke," he exclaimed.

"Who?" Meller, shaking his Zeke machine pistol fruitlessly to clear the jam, knelt opposite.

"Jacklyn Molke, he's uh, Twelve Platoon, One Section."

"Status?"

Ral shook his head. "He's alive, barely though."

"Unconscious?"

"Yeah."

Meller noticed the – formerly sergeant – Larn sitting a little way away and wondered how he had got out of the Pen. The two Zeke prisoners, the Tabors, weren't far away either. Ral mentioned something about a stretcher.

"Sorry?" Meller forgot Larn and refocused on Ral.

"We need a stretcher, sir. Now Molke's our only litter case, we need to move him."

"Won't moving him kill him?"

Ral stabbed a finger at the floor, his expression hardening. "Right now, sir. I couldn't save all those boys in the CP but I _will_ save this one. Give me a stretcher and I'll take Molke over to Sollenthul."

 _No more wounded?_ Meller was curious how Ral could pronounce that as fact. But then it hit him. With the wounded unrecoverable from the buried CP and with nobody else from the company left alive outside there was indeed no wounded, except this one. And another thing: Sollenthul. "Wait, scratch Sollenthul." Meller snapped his dry fingers, or at least attempted to. "Try the Marines."

Ral's eyebrows shot upward. "The Marines, sir."

Leaning in close, Meller clasped Ral's shoulder. "That downed cruiser is the nearest friendly callsign to us. Sollenthul has gone silent. Now who is to say they haven't been overrun like us? I don't bank on their chances of survivability. We barely pulled through as it is. Look at what we had to do to survive."

"Friendly, sir?" Ral looked dubious. "I have never seen a Marine in my entire life. That they haven't deemed to help us at all even though they're a thirty minute march that way tells us all we need to know about them. I'm going to Sollenthul."

Meller would not budge. "Now listen here, Private. Lieutenant Corta shall accompany you to the Marine perimeter and no further than that. Any attempt to carry the litter case to Firebase Sollenthul shall force me to consider filing charges against you. And yes, I have a good memory."

Stonily, Ral said, "roger that, sir."

Molke's shredded body was quickly covered with an unrolled poncho with Ral himself making sure the garment was clean before draping it over Molke. Ral also forbade anyone else from seeing the state of the grenade wounds, harshly berating and chasing away any onlookers. Meller scrutinised the blood-streaked dip in the ground where the grenade blast had been smothered. To his amazement he found a muddy grenade half-buried there and without pin or spoon. It was a dud. Snorting mirthlessly Meller frowned, realising he was holding the reason that Molke was still alive. Nobody could have known that of the two grenades thrown, one would turn out to be a dud. It was a miracle.

Lieutenant Corta was there. With a few re-armed grunts, he was shepherding some Zeke prisoners. "Caught these buggers hiding underneath some bodies, Captain, they aren't mercs."

"Who are they?" Meller eyed the three men in khaki uniforms with interest. All had foregone protective headgear for wide-brimmed berets with black tufts on top that were identical in colour to their battledress.

"Who are you?" Corta leant over one and examined the tab sewn onto his wool sleeve.

"We're Highlanders. Gellen Highlanders. Seventh Battalion," a Gellen lance corporal said shakily. "We weren't part of this mob. They told us it was fight for them or die."

"Where's your parent unit?" Meller took over from Corta.

"Somewhere across the river—I mean, our lot's all in the bag now. Chaos bastards got 'em."

"How come you're this side of the river?"

"We hid. It was every man for himself. Those were our orders. We crossed the Luten Estuary at low tide, found a cargo hauler to hide in. The whole north shore was ablaze. The cultists were putting everything to the torch."

"How many were you?"

"Twelve in my section, it's just us now."

"Alright, fine." Meller turned away.

"Sir, wait," the Gellen gasped. "Two more joined us. Tabors, Tabor Territorials."

"I've never heard of either of you," Meller muttered.

"Those men are with us," a new voice said. Appearing from behind the prisoner's guards, the elder Tabor gently pushed his way past. "They're our friends."

Corta turned and put a hand on the flap of his holster, glaring at the so-recently imprisoned Zeke.

Meller tutted, saying, "and how did you get out of the Pen?"

"They saved our lives. Peter and I owe them. Captain, sir, you treated us well. I'm begging you to extend the same hospitality to the Highlanders."

"I've no facilities for prisoners. You men, Tabors and Gellens, may remain with us but shall go without arms until we can turn you over to provosts."

"Thank you, sir." The elder Tabor nodded gratefully and helped the three Highlanders to their feet.

With the question of the prisoners overcome, Meller was at once accosted by Perandis. "Sir, Rakka's sanitised of Zeke. A perimeter has been formed. The base is secure," he said coldly. Hearing that, Corta Looked downwards and scuffed the toecaps of his boots in the muck despondently.

 _Sanitised!_ Meller could not help but guffaw quietly, something that disturbed Corta. Rakka no longer existed as an operational firebase. Aerial or orbital reconnaissance had probably picked up on the siege and, somewhere deep inside General Headquarters in Kasr Kraf, somebody was crossing out the name Rakkassan, marking it as a total loss. "Thank you, Sarn't."

"Sir," Perandis made off, leaving Corta and Meller alone.

"Simon. I have a mission for you. Escort Ral Bleak and the litter case over to the downed Marine cruiser. Take as many men as you want for security."

" _The_ litter case?" Corta sighed in bitterness. "What happened for this to have become reality, Mik?"

Meller stared into the distance with Corta. "The devaluation of our lives, Simon."

* * *

Sitting a short way from where Molke had smothered the grenades, I looked down at my grazed, dirty hands resting in my lap. The knots holding the bandages on were coming loose, and the white gauze was now stained with dirt and sweat from my palms. Gently I slid the dressings over my fingers and let them fall at my feet. Little bits of earth scratching the inside my mouth I spat out.

I did not look up as Aimo pushed a dead Zeke, lying beside me, away with his foot. "Mate," he said warmly, sitting down and putting an arm around my shoulders. "Molke's gonna be alright. Little bleeder's got a cast-iron body. Me and some of the lads are taking him over to the Marines, see if they'll help."

I did not say anything. The slow realisation of what I had done rendered me mute.

"D'you want to come with us? Bit of fresh air away from this mess'll do us good." Aimo waited for my reply. "Not bothered?" After a pause Aimo slapped me on the shoulder he rose to his feet. "Draino and Kat are just over there if you want some company. I'd best be off."

"Aimo…" I began, my voice a fraction above a whisper.

"Yes, mate." Aimo squatted.

I told him about Molke. I had to tell someone. The feeling of bottling up the truth inside of me was agony. Aimo's expression never once changed as he listened to my confession. When it was done, he said, after taking a slow breath, "don't tell anyone else what happened here. Better if no-one else knows. Did anyone see you?"

Shaking my aching head, I said, "no-one saw me."

"Okay." Aimo folded his arms and looked sternly up at me. "Forget it, James. Don't dwell on it. It's happened now and there's nothing you can do about it. Now go up to Kat and Belisha, they need some help. Best keep yourself busy."

It was a monumental endeavour to move the dead Zekes and stack them in piles. Most of Cannon was on the work detail with only a few excused to watch the perimeter. Seeing others for the first time since my re-emergence above ground, I saw faces I recognised and faces I didn't. Kat and Draino were there, true to Aimo's word. Meller, Perandis, and two of the three cooks who were always with the mess sergeant were mucking in too, at the behest of Gale. Azar however was not. For a moment I hoped he had bought his farm and was one of the few friendly casualties we were setting off to one side for later burial. Seemingly the Tabor's PW status had been revoked as they too were helping out. The Tabors were keeping a trio in dark khaki and oddly-shaped berets company whom Cannon men were taking pains to avoid talking to or even looking at. There was little discussion, ranging from mutters to grunted replies, each and every grunt being sapped of energy and in no mood for a natter. Tired hands hacked at the earth with pick-ends, folding shovels and entrenching tools, all equipment scavenged from Zeke to replace the Guard-issue kit grunts had desperately shed to lose weight in their haste to escape the CP.

"Would anyone like to say a few words?" Captain Meller said once the hole was deep enough for the bodies to be arranged in. Ringing the grave, the survivors of Cannon Company, some simply staring down at the shapes under the tarpaulins, glanced around at each other, nobody wanting to offer words of consolement in view of recent events. "No slack," someone, Kat, said at last.

"Go easy, lads," Draino added, casually tossing a metal hip flask down into the grave.

No command was given by Meller. The work simply resumed with shovels heaving piles of earth onto the bodies. On occasion the earth would stick to blades and pick-ends, the tools having picked up blood, a lot of it seeping through the earth like little red rivers, making boot-soles sticky.

Once the work-detail was given the order to fall out, I dropped the rusted fold-out spade I was using and trudged away from the others. No-one had spoken to me. Not a single 'I'm glad you're not dead, mate' was said by Kat or Draino. In the latter's case it was justified though. I barely knew him, barely knew anyone in Cannon Company who hadn't fought on Nemtess. It was probably for the better though. Having many friends only makes it harder to deal with it if they get it. Your friends are the ones you start out with, but from then on you don't make any new ones. It's the dying truth.

A peaceful stillness had settled over Rakka. The skies were clearing and the sun was poking through the clouds, warming the air. Corta and Ral's party had been gone for about half an hour. There was nothing else to do but sit tight. Immersed in the deathly quiet, peculiar for a sector that, not thirty minutes ago, had been shaken to its roots by the cacophony of battle, Cannon Company's eyes faced outwards, waiting for the party to return. Small groups of men sat or stood on exposed terrain, huddling around small fires. Nobody could be bothered to try to dig in. Shovel blades were blunt or broken and Captain Meller had not commanded the company to set about erecting defences. What was left to defend?

Away from the isolated spot I had chosen, a gang of disorganised privates, all with rifles slung on their shoulders or held in loose hands, stood around in quiet conversation. At random the brim of a helmet tilted upwards as its owner peered up into the sky, the face underneath contorting as the eyes tried to stave off the glare of the sun. I thought I was imagining it at first; the faintest whine that sounded like very low background noise. Then another head looked up, then another, and another. Casting about myself I noticed other men nearby were watching the sky above, staggering away from their groups, trying to see where the noise was coming from. Rifles were shrugged from shoulders awkwardly, their users fumbling to bring their weapons to bear. Craning my neck I squinted hard at the pink-tinged sky, seeing a tiny black speck break through a cloud. Observing it in free-fall for a moment, I was dimly aware of the rush to scatter in all directions occurring around me. Shouts of warning sounded over the growing noise as men, dismayed by the unnatural roar that was increasing in volume by the second, pushed at each other to flee, their thoughts of preservation extending only to themselves. Staying still a little longer than anyone else, I was hit by the instinct to take off, to run and run as far as I could to get away from the rising howl. A steady _crack_ of a .338, an insignificant display of defiance, was the sole defensive fire put in the sky. Remaining rooted to the spot, a grunt fired upwards repeatedly with his IM Rifle, a mask of determination on his face even as his comrades had forgone using their weapons over flinging themselves into the earth. His distant targets were three aircraft gracefully rolling over on their backs to break off for their dive. Full bomb racks were visible underneath the gull wings as they swept in at an immensely steep angle. Growing in pitch, louder and louder until the crescendo filled the skies completely, the three bombers dove in. With the ear-splitting wail in my ears, I threw myself down as every other man was doing and burrowed my face into the ground. Passing at disturbingly ponderous speed above, the bombers released their payloads, each plane giving off a daemonic shrieking as it passed by. Imagining the thin, black cylinders of death falling on my head, I clutched at my ears, flinching when the first bomb rocked the earth and again as each one fell in a line, stomping across Rakka like giant marching boots towards me; flinging those near to the blasts up into the air and making those closest disappear in bright puffs of pink. Frozen in place, I lay flat on my front with my hands over my ears even when the bombs had stopped. The concussive force from the very last bomb to detonate lifted me very slightly off the ground since it had gone off so close. That and my ears were ringing loudly.

A pair of legs ran from body to body, bending over to check each man for injury. The silence had returned. Besides the dozen new craters dug into the surface of Rakka, normalcy resumed. Grunts got up slowly, brushing themselves off and returning to their groups as if nothing had happened.

"Any medics left here?" Staff Sergeant Perandis called. Without Ral, there were none. "Captain's hit."

Blinking up at the men surrounding him, Captain Meller mumbled, "well don't just stand there, find my leg."

Peering between shoulders, I saw a pale, blood-streaked Meller sitting beside a bomb crater trying to tie his loose belt above the pinkish, glistening stump where his right leg had been severed. It certainly was not the first time I had seen such a wound, but the flat, almost bored manner in which Meller was taking it ruffled me. "Come on, Sarnt, get the men moving. See if anyone else is hit," Meller gesticulated to Perandis who quickly drove the men away from their spectating. "Lively." Looping the belt as tight as it would go Meller gave one final pull and sighed loudly. "I stand by my decision, Private," he said to me. "There may be a second chance for you in the future, to learn from past mistakes so you don't make the same errors as you did before. Aah, damn…" Meller winced, tugging at his leg. It was bleeding again. The tied-off belt would not stop the flow which continued to ooze out from the pink meat in a steady flow. "Help me here." Meller feebly tried to dig a trench for him to stuff his leg into. Getting down on my knees, I pawed at the earth with my bare hands until a small hole was dug. "No use anyway." Meller thrust his stump into the earth, forcing it down so the dirt might plug the wound. "Oh well, could be worse. At least I lived to see you dirty lot underneath the sun again, and not suffocating underground."

A short whistle came from Perandis. "Private, away with you now."

"Sarn't," Meller waved at Perandis weakly. "Never mind him. I need a…"

"Sir?" Perandis knelt down and listened.

"…Write with." Meller made a writing motion with his hands. The colour had drained completely from his face. He was sweating too. Passing him a scrunched-up piece of paper and a blunt pencil, Perandis waited as Meller scribbled something.

"Mister Corta has Cannon now…" Meller's voice was softening. "Make for Jark."

"Alright, sir." Perandis nodded, understanding. "Don't talk now. Lie down."

"Is he giving me an order?" Meller, his eyes drooping, was helped into lying down. "He's a funny man, Wharton."

"There. You're alright, sir," Perandis clasped Meller's hand, glancing up to see the attention he was attracting. "Won't be long now."

"Remind me where I left my cigars, Wharton?"

"Wharton! Anyone seen Wharton?" Perandis asked. "Someone find Wharton."

The lance jack I recognised as Meller's vox operator was found. The news of his captain's condition brought him scurrying over. "Sir, Lance Corporal Wharton reporting to the company commander as ordered," he said with sadness in his eyes.

"You haven't seen my cigars, have you?"

"You was always forgetting 'em, sir." Wharton took an unused cigar from his breast pocket. "Here, sir."

With his cigar held between his teeth, Meller relaxed, his eyes closing. "At last. Now I can come home."

"Come on, light it," Perandis whispered. But there was not a man among us that had a lighter. Mik Meller passed without tasting the sweet, scented smoke. Only Wharton among us smiled. As If waiting on cue, the thunder of guns resumed.

* * *

Simon Corta heard the drone of aircraft long before he saw them. Taking off his helmet he called a halt and listened with one ear. "Avengers," he said aloud. Digging into his binocular pouch he brought the worn pair out and glassed the blackened wart that was Rakka. "Aah, wonky-winged bastards," he remarked inwardly when he spotted three of the ugly, gull-winged fighter-bombers break through the clouds and dive down on Rakka from above.

"Are they going for Rakka?" Aimo, alarmed at the thought of bombs falling on his mates, asked.

"Better them than us right now," Ral said, shifting his grip on his half of the stretcher and turning his back as black puffs of smoke appeared, preceding the accompanying _crump_ by a second.

"Those sirens…" Cyrano balked at the unsettling wail the Avengers made.

"They ain't sirens," Olen Azar said. He was not even watching the fighter-bombers, rather keeping an eye on the party's surroundings, his Lecta ready to chop up some Zekes. "They've got perforations in their air brakes. Gives 'em that psy-op shit scream when they dive; s'posed to scare the hell outta you."

"No shit." Belisha muttered darkly, passing on the grandstand view along with Azar.

"Maybe they'll need a medic?" Aimo looked hopefully at Corta. "They've gotta have some casualties, surely, sir."

"If you're thinkin' of hoofin' back to Rakka, fine," Ral snapped. "You give all the moral aid you can give, I'm still gonna try for the Marines."

"So just Molke as opposed to throne-knows how many of our mates back there?" Aimo glared. "Seems a bit cuntish, giving the fella special treatment."

Surprisingly it was Azar who was the first to remind the arguing pair of the present danger. "We're outside the perimeter. Zeke might be round here somewhere, and you're squabbling like a pair o' whores." If that wasn't enough, Azar waved his Lecta in emphasis, jabbing his fingers at others to remain vigilant.

"Enough!" Corta stepped in before Ral could retort with equal venom. Ral was weighed down with the stretcher, luckily, or they may have come to blows. "Garst, head back to Rakka on the double, and see how heavy we are on casualties. Leave that weapon with us."

Smarting, Aimo heaved the sling of his heavy IM belt-fed stubber over his head and spread the bipod legs, sitting the weapon on the ground for someone else to take. Corta ordered another man to accompany Aimo. He already had fifteen men coming along. That was enough for him. Too large a number might spook the Marines guarding the perimeter. Erring on the side of caution was the wisest decision, especially with unpredictable characters like the Astartes.

Approaching the downed cruiser, Corta was surprised at how imposing a structure it was, and they were not even anywhere near it, despite how tall it loomed; taking up a sizeable portion of the skyline. It looked akin to a refinery except with half a dozen engine nozzles, each the size of a hab-block, sticking out of the rear. Emerald paint, once covering the entire vessel, had darkened to almost black from the intense heating the hull had taken when it had fallen through the atmosphere. A bone white sigil, almost one-hundred feet high, was boldly emblazoned on the vessel's flank, just above where it had broken in half upon impact. A winged sword positioned blade-down. Corta did not recognise it.

"A lot of barrels pointed at us," Belisha said uneasily once the party had moved out from the shade cast by a colossal archway made of wreckage and into the sunlight again.

"Quiet now." Corta too had noticed the many gun batteries mounted on turrets or poking out of the hull and struggled to swallow his mounting anxiety. The silence was nerve-wracking.

"Bring Molke forwards." Corta waved Ral and Carillo, the other surviving medic, to the forefront. "We have to be sure the Marines see him. Sling your rifles too." As a further precaution, Corta unclipped his chinstrap and attached his ceramite cover to his belt, ordering everyone else to do the same.

"I dunno. Do we look like Zeke to them?" Belisha, scratching his bare head, readjusted the strap of Aimo's stubber that was cutting into his shoulder.

"Right bunch o' proper bloody bums we look now," Azar joked, snorting at the filthy state the mens' uniforms were in. "Maybe the Marines will shoot us for a disorderly appearance."

"There'll be no shooting, Private." Corta slung his M-36 across his back and produced a stained, greyish rag from his trouser pocket. "Everyone hang back here. Ral and I will take Molke in."

Having set Molke down for a minute to rest his tired arms, Ral abruptly took hold of the stretcher end and stood up with his knees, taking care not to strain his back. Behind him, Carillo's expression was pained. His arms were on fire from carrying Molke all the way from Rakka.

"Slow. Slow." Corta, glancing back at the others, beckoned the stretcher-bearers forward, simultaneously waving the rag in the air.

"I've got a bad—"

"Oi!" Ral interrupted before Carillo could finish.

"Silence." Corta hissed. But even he could not keep from gabbling a whispered prayer under his breath, so frightened of the Marines he was. Corta's ear pricked up as a metallic groaning deep inside the cavernous interior echoed loudly. The hairs on the back of his neck and arms rose on end when he heard the wind moan sorrowfully as it traversed the derelict. _Something of such scale should not be so quiet._ Corta had the feeling that he would shortly be treading on ground inhabited only by ghosts. But of course he did not believe in ghosts; there was only the Emperor. "The Emperor protects," Corta whispered, his voice starting to shake. "The Emperor protects."

 _Crack._

The gunshot, deeper and much louder than a rifle, brought forth a cry of shock from Corta who quickly fell down, clutching the side of his ringing head closest to where the projectile had snapped past, dizzying him. Dropping to their knees also, Ral and Carillo shrunk in fear as the unseen shots banged around them, snapping through the air and punching wide holes in the ground. Carillo hunching over Molke's body as if he believed it would protect the wounded man. Waving blindly, Corta shouted, "back! Back!"

Performing an about-face, Ral and Carillo exchanged positions, with Ral bringing up the rear this time. All the strain on Carillo's face had vanished now that he was fearing for his life. Ral pushed on his end, forcing Carillo to run faster than he could, burdened as he was with Molke's weight. Running beside them, Corta jammed his cover on his head and held it in place with one hand, his other keeping his M36 from jumping around on his back. Were he not focusing all his energy on fleeing the gunfire Corta might have wondered why the Marines were missing. Unable to tell how many weapons were firing because of the noise, Corta refused to look back for any signs of pursuit, rather diving behind the nearest scraps of cover then hauling the stretcher team after him. Gasping at the sudden bout of exertion, Corta pointed Ral and Carillo back in the direction of the arch, where the rest had retreated under. "Get going," he said, edging to the left to try and get a look at who was firing. The moment Corta peered around the edge of the rent armour plate, a round passed perilously closeby, dazing him in its travel then burrowing into wreckage behind him. Maybe a tenth of a second after impact, a little explosion occurred as the round detonated. _Bolters_ , Corta thought. What also crossed Corta's mind, now that he had time to catch his breath, was that the crackshot Marines were missing on purpose, a notion that greatly relieved him. Corta's fear however did not abate. He had not seen a soul, only heard and felt the bolter shells fired by the phantom Marines who did not want any ordinary humans intruding on their turf, regardless of allegiance. _If that was their response to allied troops then just what form of horror will they inflict upon Zeke when he unwittingly stumbles onto the same path as us?_ Corta wondered as he hastened to catch up with the others. As despair tugged at his heart, Corta thought of his charge, Molke. In their arrogant, prejudiced mindset, the Marines had condemned the poor boy to death. All Corta could do now was return, defeated, to Rakka and explain to Molke's friends why he could not be saved. _Do you hate us, Holiness?_ _What transgression are we guilty of that your light no longer shines on our path?_

* * *

A sombre atmosphere had settled over the ruins of Rakka following the bombing. I stood, along with every man that could in the company, and watched Staff Sergeant Perandis dump the last shovelfuls of earth onto Mik Meller's grave. Not a word was spoken at all throughout the burial, nor did Perandis ask anyone to offer them. We just watched. Once the fresh soil was flattened, Perandis stepped back and allowed Len Wharton to mark the captain's resting place with a bayonetted Kantrael, balancing a helmet on the butt and hanging Meller's tags from the trigger guard. Removing himself to stand nearby, Wharton stared at the ground as Perandis returned to the grave and disabled the M-36, preventing its use by the enemy. The ceremony done, grunts left in dribs and drabs, tipping helmets onto their heads and picking up weapons. I was one of the few that stayed, now squatting opposite Wharton. I did not look up when Aimo joined us. Draino and Kat were there too, leaning on their rifle barrels and wearing dour masks. Gale remained, even when his two cooks had turned away, a look of sadness in his eyes. The man from Photo, Herle, scratched something in a journal. Mid-way through a sentence the nib of his pencil snapped, and he gave up.

Wharton, Perandis, Aimo and I were the last to stand watch over Meller. We were there even when Corta and his party returned a while later.

"Where's the captain?" Corta, breathless and sweating, approached Perandis from behind. Aimo, Cyrano, Belisha, and Azar were behind him. "Where's the captain?" he repeated. Wharton and I regarded Corta glumly, saying nothing. Perandis too kept quiet, simply passing the note Meller had written to Corta and walking away. The orders Meller had left in his place were absorbed stoically by Corta, who resigned himself to staring flatly at the grave marker and the tags hanging from it. From the corner of my eye I could see Corta blinking very quickly as he reached for the pair of taped disks, yanking them from where they hung and tucking them inside a breast pocket. "Staff Sergeant," he called, clearing his throat and swallowing.

Perandis, silent and brooding, spun on his heel and marched up to Corta.

"Have Cannon Company form marching order. We make for battalion headquarters."

Perandis gave a curt nod and strode off to pull the company together. It was Aimo who gave the final word. "Pack it up, lads, we're moving, iggery." Reaching down to me, Aimo took my hand and pulled me to my feet.

Scorched earth policy in effect, Rakka was set alight by the departing company. Two files of thirty men, Cannons, Tabors, Gellens, and one stretcher team, marched along the mud track, their backs warmed to an uncomfortable degree by heat carried with them in the westerly wind. Keeping pace in front of Aimo, my eyes were constantly roving around the sky, searching for those bombers; Banshees I think described them well. My concern was shared by others, who were likewise, watching the empty space above for black specks and the ominous drone of aero engines. The skies remained clear however, and the only features were fantastically-shaped clouds that did not seem to realise they were hanging over a planet at war.

A rough hour since the company had swung south after joining a single-lane offshoot of Highway 2 Lieutenant Corta called a halt, letting us fall out. The wide, metalled road we had found may have been the same road we had ridden in on. But time and Zeke had taken a toll on the surrounding terrain. Craters from poorly-aimed artillery were dotted about. Zeke's guntrucks had left deep tyre-marks, and there was even evidence of a firefight, if the spent links and cartridge cases were anything to go by. As a final insult to the enemy, Zeke had parked a guntruck on the road facing C-for-Cannon. The two men sitting in the vehicle's seats were first glimpsed at a distance, only becoming clearer when the company came near. Corta himself had gone in to investigate, ordering the company to stay at a distance. After scoping about the ground around and underneath the vehicle, Corta came running back. He was white. Not out of sickness but of fury.

"What's rattled him?" Aimo, slumped on the rocky embankment beside me, said.

"Think he just found our missing men," Gale grunted. "When we left 558, some of the others were run down and dragged away by Zeke."

"I could've sworn those two are grinning." Removing his glasses Weld blew on the cracked lenses and put them back on.

"They're not," Azar said, in the midst of relieving himself on the bare ground a few paces away.

"But their mouths are open. I can see 'em." Weld persisted.

"Leave it." Gale put his foot down, eyeing Weld dangerously.

With the revelation that two of our men had been mutilated and executed by Zeke, the company's mood turned even blacker. Vile threats towards our enemy were passed around as we watched Corta and Perandis gradually ease the guntruck back down the road until a break in the metal barrier permitted them to push it over the embankment.

"Well get 'em out first!" somebody voiced aloud the question why the two men weren't first removed from their seats. A disgruntled ripple ran through the watchers when a bright flame appeared underneath the chassis where the fuel tank was. Neither Corta nor Perandis responded when bombarded with questions the minute they had scaled the bank and regained the road. Corta had two pairs of ID tags, so he must have seen them up close. Even I was curious as to what had forced the abandonment of the two executed. With flames engulfing them now, we would never know. The officer and NCO weren't talking.

"Not for any decent folk to be privy to." Gale whisked his two followers away. Azar, one foot resting on the highway barrier, scowled.

"Two minutes." The word was passed around. During those two minutes I became curious of the two corpses in the truck. Slipping the 26-pound leadweight of Aimo's stubber off of my shoulder, I set the weapon beside the seated Aimo and stepped towards the flaming wreck cautiously.

"What you doing?" Aimo sat up straight, tilting back the brim of his helmet from where he had tipped it over his eyes.

"Larn, there's nothing of any interest to you over there," Perandis shouted.

"Did any of you hear a click?" a high-pitched voice said.

I had not heard the click at all. I felt it beneath my left heel.

"Freeze!" Perandis raised his arms and hopped over the barrier, edging down the slope towards the company members that had strayed where they shouldn't have. "All ORs and NCOs in front of me, probe the ground around you gently. Very slowly get up and retrace your steps back to the road. Move in ones and twos. Garst, you first."

Less than a third of the company were sitting on the extreme edge of a minefield. It was anyone's guess why the burning guntruck had not set off any mines but even more of a miracle that not a single unwary footfall had resulted in a severed foot or destroyed testicle. Frozen with my left foot pressing hard on the thin plunger, it became apparent that only I had struck dumb when every other grunt successfully retrieved his guard-issue carcass from the minefield, abandoning me without any attempt to assist or even give a word of consolation.

"He's a dead man," Azar proclaimed from the safety of the road. In the presence of Corta and Perandis there was no hint of triumph. He stated it like a fact, which it was. Aimo looked about ready to knock Azar out for that.

"What do you feel under your foot?" Perandis asked from where he was waiting at the bottom of the bank less than twenty feet away from me.

"Some sorta button," I said slowly, bending over and trying to get a better look at the mine.

"You've got your weight on it?"

"Yeah, Sarn't, all my weight." That wasn't saying much. On the last instance I had weighed myself I was brushing the boundary between just about healthy and underweight.

"Hear anything?"

"Nah, Sarn't."

"Right." Thinking, Perandis rubbed his hands together. "What you've stepped on is a pressure-detonated anti-personnel device. Stepping off will trigger the detonator."

"Let's shove an ammo box or full canteen on the detonator," Aimo suggested hopefully. His plan fell flat when nobody could produce an ammunition box or even a close-to-full canteen.

"Sir?" Perandis had noticed Corta was monitoring the road north. The lieutenant had greater concerns about Zeke, I realised, my body shivering even in the warmth of the blaze. "Mister Corta?"

Corta gave a subtle shake of his head. "Cannon Company, fall in, marching order."

Perandis gritted his teeth and snarled inaudibly. Aimo looked devastated. "Naw, bollocks to that." Aimo stepped over the barrier and sat against the bank, his IM .30 Cal planted between his knees. "Uh, Sarn't?"

"Number ten, Corporal, Mister Corta says to fall in." Perandis was having none of it.

"Number ten, mate." I gave Aimo little thumbs-up, trying to force a non-existent smile. "Don't be worried. I'm going home."

Aimo scowled. "Well that ain't the way home, that's for damn sure. Home's south down that road, and you'd better believe it is, 'cause we're all going that way. We're all going home together."

"…Yeah, I'll—I'll be right along behind you." I tried to half-heartedly reassure Aimo. But the effort was for nought, what with Aimo aware of the the reason Molke was stretcher-bound. From the look Aimo gave me, he thought I wanted to be left alone to die as he left with Perandis.

* * *

So it was, after many hours of standing uncomfortably with my weight on one foot, the first Zeke patrol found me. The guntruck burnt brightly still, a beacon in the sea of dusk that rolled slowly over Cadia Secundus, attracting the enemy to me. Through the patchy smoke I saw six figures loom over the crest of a ridge and stride confidently down into the minefield. I flinched only once when the Zeke patrol began shooting at the ground in front of them to clear a path, composing myself as I waited, austere, for the enemy. Uncaring of the staggered explosions predating Zeke, I stood up straight, keeping both of my hands held firmly by my sides; in one gripping my helmet by the chinstrap.

Six shadows, the Zekes skirted around the light cast by the flames, three on either side of me. Refusing to look any of them in the eye, I focused on the fire, seeing only their blurred shapes as they trod the minefield carefully. Feeling the jab of a rifle barrel in the side of my back, I began to raise my left foot, easing the pressure off. Having gone to sleep hours ago, I had trouble lifting my leg. A hand clasping my arm tightly gave the notion that Zeke would try to march me away into captivity. I prepared to step off, tensing when the hand began to exert force.

Five quick shots, all crisp, single taps, awoke me from the calm acceptance I wanted to meet death with, nearly causing me to leap up in fright. My heart leapt anyway, the shock of the close-range gunfire making my eyes water. Wet, sticky blood was on my cheek. The thuds of bodies crumpling to the ground both elated and stunned me.

Five of the six Zekes had fallen. The sixth, his eyes and mouth hidden by his clothing, lowered his smoking Kazalak from his shoulder and swung it around onto his back, joining a longer and thinner rifle. The hastening drumroll of my heartbeat thumped loudly in my ears as the Zeke reached beneath his grey parka and produced a combat knife then flourished it. Believing he was on the verge of gutting me, I clamped my teeth tightly together and closed my eyes. A rustle of clothing directly beside me made me open my eyes a crack. Holding the blade on me, the Zeke dove downwards, cutting horizontal into the side of my boot. Gaping in disbelief I screwed up my face, feeling the blade working through the black leather with ease, wondering just what Zeke was doing. Cool air tickled my sweaty sock as it was very slowly exposed to the elements. Frightened the sharpened point of the knife would slice my foot, I dug my toes into the insole, biting down on a little groan.

Daylight was fast deserting me, leaving only the dimming glow of the guntruck for my Zeke saviour to work with. Worried and confused, I made to bend over but was batted away. _What is he doing?_ Gesturing for me to keep my weight on the mine, the Zeke pushed a section of thin rope between the severed parts of my boot and underneath my instep. As absurd as it was caught in such a dangerous situation, I felt the Zeke's fingers tickle my foot bringing up a small snort. Embarrassed, I tried to cover with a cough. Repeating the procedure several times, the Zeke worked at the rope beneath my sole. He was tying it to the section of the mine I was standing on, supplanting the weight of my foot with the, now-loose, boot sole. If I removed my foot now, only the tension of the knot, keeping the sole pressed down on the plunger, would stop the mine from going off. He wasn't seriously considering it, was he?

My question was answered when the Zeke put his knife away and straightened up, now face to face with me. Ignoring my pleading look he put both hands underneath my armpits and lifted me up, carrying me like a baby out of the minefield and tossing me against the roadside bank with nary a whisper. Twisting upright to confront the Zeke I raised my hand to protect my face when he swooped down onto me. A biting _crack_ jarred my teeth, but the Zeke had not struck me. It came from the mine. The Zeke's improvised rigging had only given us a few seconds of time to flee, and he had actually put himself between me and the blast. Shaking my head clear I wiped my moistening eyes. The Zeke picked himself up, adjusted the slings of the weapons on his back, raised his obscuring goggles and lowered his mask.

 _Stickie_.

I cringed when Izuru slapped me sharply with a gloved hand, her pale face twisting in a hideous grimace. "That child did not deserve the fate you gave him," she snarled in a hoarse voice. "He took two grenades to save your life. Grenades you would have used on yourself!"

Again she slapped me, this time across the mouth, splitting my lower lip. Tasting blood, I felt it run down my gums, staining my teeth red. "He's not dead," I moaned.

"LIAR!" Izuru backhanded me. "No human can withstand such physical trauma and live."

"He's not dead, I swear," I sobbed, trying to wipe the blood from my chin. "What's he to you, uh? You don't even know his name." Izuru raised her hand to strike me again but withheld the blow. "His name's Jacklyn Molke. He's seventeen, and he ain't been born yet. But I'm tryin'. I'm tryin' hard to keep him alive. What's he mean to you? Nothing. What do I mean to you? Nothing—"

"Be an individual then. Serve only yourself and be content in the knowledge that you can never attain true kinship with your comrades. Selfish human!" Near-hysterical, Izuru hit me on the side of my head, almost sobbing in anger. "Penitence!"

"What?" I had not known what the word had meant then.

"Where is your guilt? Your sorrow?"

"If I could take it back, I would." Cowering, I tried to blindly find Izuru's wrist but she grabbed my hand and hit me with it instead, her voice almost a rasp now. "Please."

"Know that you have damned that boy forever." Izuru brought my hand down on top of my head hard. "Despicable, you are deserving only of the lash of the Druchii; a condemning sentence. How could you put yourself in such a situation? You whelp. You cur. _Margorach!_ You might have died—"

"What do you want from me?" I cried, holding my bent arms around my head to protect it from any further blows. "Why are you here?"

Pausing in her tirade, Izuru lifted her Kazalak's sling over her head and thrust the rifle at me, the stock slapping me in the chest. "A promise unfulfilled," she said quietly but with the fire still burning in her eyes. "Keladi walks a lonely path far flung from her people. And one that no maiden should be forced to tread." Reaching down Izuru picked up my bare ceramite helmet from where I had dropped it and threw it at me. "She has not yet reached adulthood. Or have you forgotten?" Fumbling with the warm rifle I tried to remember the red-haired stickie from the ship. "What further slips your mind is the promise you made to watch over her in my absence. A promise you have failed to observe." Izuru got my arm in an iron grip and hauled me upright. "You will help me find her. Only then will you be free."

My eyes fixed firmly on the ground, I grunted, "what d'you expect to find 'ere, Stickie, on a planet full o' humans?" Making as if to hit me again, Izuru paused mid-swing when I stuck my bloody chin out. "Go on. It's what I deserve, isn't it? Do it over and over if it makes you happy." I stood up straight, fighting the urge to tremble. "I ain't gonna hit back. But I'm gonna keep getting back up if you knock me down." Shaking my head, I said plainly, "it's just the way it is."

Izuru's hand wavered. A tiny quivering of a muscle in her jaw betrayed her reluctance. Blinking steadily, I met her gaze and held it. "Nah. I don't believe you," I spoke after a short silence. "Deny it. I reckon you will but it's not your girl that's the reason you're 'ere." Lowering her hand, Izuru turned away, glanced back at me then began moving away. I had her at a loss for what to say. Seeing a potential advantage I limped after her, discarding my ruined boot and puttee along the way. "Reason you're here is... well, war to you is what Obscura is to drugheads, what Gladstones are to psyk-trippers. Can't get enough of it, can you?"

Whirling around, Izuru shoved me on my back. Straddling me she shoved her face close to mine, baring her teeth, her face a frightening visage. "That's it," I said shakily. "I know. You're a violent person at heart. We all are when we're pushed. You're only 'ere to feed your addiction to war, yeah?" Grunting, Izuru tried to form a response, failed, and swept away. "How you thinking of finding Keladi then?" I asked, picking myself up and loping in her wake.

"I can sen—"

"—Sense her, yeah." I had expected that answer. "The Cadians gonna be sympathetic to that? What about Zeke? You wasted that lot good an' proper."

"I should have left you in the minefield," Izuru muttered.

"Also… this ain't your hunting ground, is it? You think you're escorting me, do you? I think it's the opposite way round. I'm escorting you 'ere. This is human turf… _Sniper_." I noticed the optics attached to the rifle Izuru carried. "Sniper?" Replacing her mask and goggles Izuru cast a baleful glance over her shoulder at me. "You're working for me now. How's that sound? I help you find your girl; fair exchange?" Izuru stayed silent. Satisfied I slung my Kazalak and felt gingerly for my damp foot, knowing that it would soon be coming under protracted torture unless I found some more footwear on the march. Sticking my hands deep inside my trouser pockets I hunched my shoulders as the first droplets of rain began to patter on my flak jacket. A long, tiring and miserable night lay ahead.


	28. Chapter 27

**Highway 2, Cadia Secundus**

Hours into the march I sought shelter underneath a low girder bridge, too cold and wet to go on, tired and thoroughly miserable. The rough stone steps I lay against were of little consolation, being damp from moisture and rife with moss growing out of gaps. Noise from bombing raids to the south made the ground shake very gently, dispelling showers of water droplets hanging from the underside of the steel struts. Sometimes flashes could be seen through the driving rain, occurring out of sync with the accompanying thunder.

Wiggling my bare foot I tucked it underneath my other leg to restore some warmth. The sock I had removed and stowed underneath the shoulder of my flak jacket to dry out. Remembering the dangers of damp footwear brought on uncomfortable memories of Nemesis Tessera. Faces, many of which I could not place names to, played over and over in my mind, jerking me awake whenever I nodded off. I longed for sleep but was in such an exhausted state that it was impossible to even doze. The stone bed refused to grant me comfort and remained cutting into the back of my jacket.

I wondered how far down the road the others were, and hoped they had found somewhere to lie up protected from the rain and were thinking of me also. It had hurt to see them leave. Though forced to make a harsh decision, Corta had done what was best for the company; that I understood. He had sixty men to return safely to Kasr Jark and one poor-footed ex-NCO would not have made him consider otherwise. _Be safe, you lads_ , I thought, comforted in the knowledge that they were safe from Zeke for the moment.

A muffled cough above drew my attention to my newest problem. The stickie sniper sat huddled in a tight corner just below where the sloped stone met the underside of the bridge. A short glance over my right shoulder affirmed that the stickie was watching me; one bright eye was always open. _When does she sleep?_ I fumed. Now that she was in my company I fervently refused to refer to her by her given name, Izuru Numerial, which I knew full well by now despite trying to forget and dissociate her with me. If not on a name-basis then it would be easier to forget the holy terror that she was when her grave was inevitably dug on Cadia.

Glancing at the stickie again I glimpsed her wiping something from her chin then hiding her lower face from my view. Her sharp gaze deterred any inquisitiveness. "When last we met, you wore the sleeve insignia of a non-commissioned officer. Why was it removed?" Izuru's voice echoed slightly in the space underneath the bridge. Folding my arms I worked my collar tighter around my neck and said nothing. "Can words not be exchanged when blows were so readily reciprocated between us?" Izuru continued.

Getting up, I stooped and hobbled towards where the rain was falling, intent on ignoring the stickie for all it was worth. A boom of thunder and she was standing in front of me, instantly drenched, gazing at me from beneath her sopping hood.

"I'm moving on," I said, struggling not to shiver in my sodden combats.

"Why are you no longer a sergeant?" Izuru reached for my arm and daintily plucked a strand of thread out of a needle hole, holding it up in front of me.

"Why are you on your own?" I retorted, standing fast in defiance of the rain, and her. "Where's your command? Your lot was s'posed to throw in with us after Nemtess. But it's only you, here, pretending to help me." Even with the rain soaking my hair and running down my face, a dryness had arisen in my throat. The drowsiness lulling my senses was gone, washed away in the rain.

"Prepare to sleep…" Izuru took a step towards me.

"No." I stuck out my jaw grimly, determined not to cower before her again.

"Sleep beckons. You try, but you do not know how. Now prepare to sleep, one, two, three."

"Number ten, Sniper, I'm not gonna—" I paused, blinked, and momentarily forgot where I was and what I was saying before recalling instantaneously. My position had changed. No longer was I standing face to face with the stickie out in the rain but back lying against the stone pillar, and dry.

"Number ten?" Izuru had changed too. She sat with her back to an adjacent support and one leg dangling over the side. Her hood was thrown back. Even in the dim light the unnatural pale hue in her face caught my eye. "Whatever happened to numbers one through nine?" Her voice was faintly mocking.

"I'm not gonna sleep." I coughed, groping about, confused at my sudden displacement. "I tell ya, I'm not gonna sleep. I can't."

"You have."

"What?"

"You have been asleep for the past few hours," Izuru said simply. "I put you to sleep with a post-hypnotic suggestion. You were dead on your feet."

"…No." Gripped with fear, I scrambled about for my cover and rifle, in the near-frenzy missing that I had put my helmet on backwards. The gap between the company and I would have widened by an even greater margin now, to my dismay. I did not want to be left alone with the stickie and the nearing mobs of Zeke.

"Choosing to flail around in the dark, alone and with only one boot is not the way, my friend."

"Friend?!" I hopped on one leg, tentatively stretching my filthy foot out and probing the wet ground, saying, "I've gotta get back to the company right now." Then adding, "and I'm not your friend."

"How cordial," Izuru said with surprising gentleness. "But know that your path, if you choose to take it, shall only lead you astray."

"Lead me astray… I'm following the road south. There's only one direction to go," I grunted, searching underneath my flak jacket for my sock.

"And how far will you go on one boot?"

"As far as the company has." I was steadily losing my patience with Izuru. Her hypnotic trick had very nearly driven the nail in.

"Stay." Now serious, Izuru fixed me with an intense stare. "Until the rain abates."

Seeing sense I laid my Kazalak in my lap and sighed. "You're all outta friends now. S'why you want me around, innit?"

Glancing down at her chest, Izuru touched hand to her side. "I see the value of allies now. Squandering them as I have is among the worst mistakes I have ever made. My first command was also my last. As the sole survivor of the Ranger company I was given custodian of, the shame is mine and mine alone. Its loss shall weigh on my heart until my time of dying."

Guilty though it felt, my brief stint as platoon sergeant rang similarly to Izuru's experiences with command. I was even more reluctant to admit it, but felt myself compelled to by her. "I had a platoon, had my three stripes; had a good thing going. Then I didn't."

"Factors out of your control contributed to it?" Listening inquisitively Izuru cocked her head to one side.

"Yeah. No." I folded my arms and hid my face behind my knees. "Not proud of it."

"Complications?"

"Nah. Simple."

"Then how…" Izuru trailed off. I did not want to speak about it with her. Aimo would have understood. She would not.

"You've had the bugger," I muttered.

"I have had the bugger…?" Izuru said slowly, not understanding my words. I made no further comment and sunk inside myself.

With the cessation of the rain, I stuck my head out from underneath the cover of the bridge, sniffing in the cool night air. "Right, we're in business. Stickie, iggery!"

"Iggery?" Making a face, Izuru took her sniper rifle in one hand and leapt the short distance down from her perch. She gave a short yet sharp inhalation on landing, her hand flying to her right hip. I ignored Izuru and slung my Kazalak on my shoulder.

"How great a head-start have they?" Izuru stood up straight, quickly recovering from the odd episode.

"I dunno. The company left me in the minefield. I think it was mid-afternoon then. Lost track o' time standing on that bloody mine."

"Indeed."

"How d'you know that stuff anyway? Tying the boot sole to the mine like that?" I loped forwards, trying to make out the grassy slope that led up to the highway, nearly falling flat in the dark.

"Proficiency in enemy firearms and tactics is mandatory in Ranger training." Izuru offered a hand to me, helping me find my footing and guiding me around the steep slope to where the gradient lessened. "Speak quietly now. Sound travels."

"Yeah," I grunted softly in reply. Better to not talk at all and observe noise discipline. Attracting Zeke patrols would do us no good. I was not equipped to fight, or even to run as my foot reminded me every time I trod on a stone hidden in the grass for the umpteenth time. One sharp stone in my heel swiftly brought me to my knees, swearing at the sharp pain.

"Hold still." Izuru swooped over me, taking my numb foot in her hands. Without waiting, Izuru found the stone protruding from my heel and yanked it out. Sticking a fist inside my mouth, I groaned. "You are still a human, weak in body, frail in mind." Izuru lazily flicked the stone away. "You cannot continue in this manner."

"Drop dead, stickie," I retorted.

Producing a rag, which I dearly hoped was clean Izuru tied it around my bleeding foot. "Were I travelling with more preferable companions I would." Izuru pursed her lips. Then, and once more surprising me, Izuru pulled me upright and drew my left arm across her shoulders. "But, for now, present company must suffice," she said in the same tone of voice.

"Hang on." I worked my Kazalak around on its sling, allowing me to hold it awkwardly from the hip, only right-handed. "Okay, ready."

"Your stance does not instil confidence in me." Izuru was nearly lifting me off my feet due to our height difference.

"Don't it, Sniper?" I gritted my teeth and tried to exert as little pressure on my bad foot as possible.

"Nor does your dialect."

"Ah. You've never lived with soldiers. We've all got potty mouths, like."

"Spoken like a true commoner."

"You're different, are you; a noble or someone?"

Izuru said nothing, instead freezing on the spot.

Now dependent on her to move, I fidgeted impatiently. "C'mon."

"Silence. Listen."

Half-heartedly listening I snorted as my ears picked up only the wind. "Nah, nothing."

"Vehicles, coming from the north," Izuru said, ducking low and sliding down the embankment to the ditch at the bottom.

Given no choice but to follow Izuru, I rode the grass down after her. "How d'you hear that?"

"Hush," Izuru pointed across me. "No noise."

It occurred to me just how much more sensitive Izuru's hearing was to mine as I had to listen hard, only hearing a distant rumble of engines after a good ten seconds. "Are they ours?" I asked in a moment of foolishness. _Use your bloody loaf and stop asking stupid questions_ , I snapped at myself. To that, Izuru paid me a subtly derisive glance, saying nothing.

A lighter buzz of a motorcycle combination preceded a squarish shape which emerged from the gloom, the rattle and squeak of its treads loud on the metalled road. Passing by above us, I peered up at the unfamiliar shape, quite certain that it was a Zeke transport. Following closely behind was a six-wheeled armoured car. Waiting for the vehicles to disappear into the murk I held my breath long after the noise faded away.

"There is your answer," Izuru whispered.

"D'you see 'em? Did you get a good look at 'em?" Clutching my wet Kazalak to my chest, I cast about worriedly for any Zeke foot patrols that might have also been probing in our direction.

"Armed motorcycle, one half-track, and a scout car. Chaos reconnaissance unit."

"Recce mob, yeah." I pointed my Kazalak in the direction the Zeke recce probe had vanished. "Iggery."

Izuru seemed to have no trouble in assisting me, never needing to stop and rest, even for a moment to catch her breath. The thinness of her arm contrasted with how sinewy it felt, without a shred of fat to speak of. I must have been no heavier than a child to her.

"Zeke," she muttered after a very long period of silence. The bombing of the Kasrs had long since ended, and the night was quiet. "They are lying up."

"Where?" I could see shapes and not much else. Very little light was present. Was it enough for her to see unimpeded? "What d'you see?"

"Structures of concrete. An outpost guarding the road." Izuru turned left abruptly and without giving me warning.

"Hang on, where we going?" I twisted my head and looked up at her, nodding at the outpost. "Let's get on through there before it gets light. There ain't no cover round here."

"Be silent."

What had gone unnoticed by my eyes but not Izuru's was the presence of high ground to the left of the outpost, a rough 150 yards east. Sitting in the shadow of the slopes were fields once overgrown with trees that were now reduced to a forest of stumps, all woodland having been cleared away either for fuel or the simple practise of denying any invaders cover. The job, thankful to us, was only half done as the stumps had not been uprooted, the land flattened, and mines sown.

Expecting a monumental strain to reach the top of the hill in the dark I was taken aback when Izuru, gripping the side of a loose boulder with one hand, managed to lift me up the final leg with only one arm. The exertion was not without effortless though, I heard something akin to a pained gasp being stifled as I was lifted up onto the ledge. Though whatever ailed Izuru, it affected her only for a moment, quickly returning to her quiet, professional demeanour.

"Such foolish blunderings will only cost us." Izuru lay down on the rock, beckoning for me to do so to.

I realised the idiocy of simply trying to sneak past Zeke and wondered why, back down at the roadside I had not. "They're gonna be watching the south more than the north." I wriggled up beside her. "Also…"

"Also?" Izuru drew her rifle slowly, lifting the sling over her head. She wiped the front and rear lenses before tucking the skeletonised stock into her shoulder.

"I'd have a sniper team posted on a spot with a vantage. Somewhere they've got a good field o' vision."

"Yes."

"And take 'em out first. Quietly, like."

"As your Tactica dictates."

"Well how'd you do it then?" I peered at the long sniper rifle in Izuru's hands. The KA slung on my back could have been its younger brother, I remarked. Everything looked the same, only the sniper model was longer and thinner.

"By imitating you humans, but with more finesse."

"Bunch o' arrogant tossers, you lot," I replied. Izuru was revelling in it however.

"I am the aristocrat of snipers – an artisan. I only shoot officers," Izuru said with pride in her voice.

Tapping my fingers on the rock, my eyes darted about, settling on her. "So I'm alright then? 'Cause I'm never gonna be no officer. Shower o' bastards."

"With language like that, never." I missed the small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, hidden by the cheek pad that was screwed to the stock. "As expected," Izuru announced with a hint of glee. "Remain here awhile. Observe an artisan's work."

"Uh?" Izuru must have spotted something through her scope. I could see nothing and wondered what made her make such a decision on the fly. "Where?"

I looked on, bemused, as Izuru leapt down from the hillside in a strange mix of bounds and rolls that no human body should have been able to cope with. She had left her sniper rifle lying beside me but had taken the precaution of removing the ammunition – both the magazine and chamber were clear, a clear indication that I was not to interfere. It did not stop me from seizing the rifle and watching Izuru through the sights. It took me a moment to work out where my eye needed to be in order to see the magnified image clearly and even longer to locate Izuru. Twice I passed over Izuru without recognition. The third time I caught her squarely and laid the chevron on her back, marvelling just how far she had moved in such little time. _Where are you going?_ I wondered inwardly, with a rising concern that she was intending to assault the occupied outpost by herself.

The worry vanished when Izuru leapt the barrier bordering one side of the highway and crossed it at speed, disappearing down the opposite bank before reappearing in the fields the other side of the road. Now more cautious, Izuru scaled a short but vertical bluff a stone's throw from where the outpost's concrete wall extended from the rock. My last sighting was her disappearing amongst a clump of pine trees on the hilltop overlooking the outpost. Unlike the land on either side of the road, the hillside had not been cleared, so there was the possibility that Zeke had posted observers who could monitor the road for traffic and report in without fear of detection.

Unable to locate the stickie I swept the area around the outpost, taking in the three Zeke vehicles that had rolled in unopposed and been parked around the back of the two-storey outpost that was just off the highway on the east side closer to me. On the other side of the carriageway, an open space covered by a curving roof likely to shelter vehicles had been neglected. The only building there was one shed which looked like a generator room of some kind. Two Zekes had been posted on either side of the concrete barricades intended to throttle traffic. Another was lazing around the vehicles, holding something in his fingers, a cigarette maybe. I noticed the faint orange glow and imagined his superior invoking a bollocking for showing a light at night.

Three Zekes outside, maybe more but from my spot I could not see the entire compound. Hazarding a guess at Zeke's numbers, I totted up an estimate in my head. Three men on the motorcycle combination; there was sidecar with mounted weapon attached. Three crew for the armoured car. The six-wheeled affair looked like an eleven-and-a-half tonne Horus with the turret mounting the cannon removed and replaced with a weapon of a lighter calibre. Six Zekes for certain then. What I could not be sure of was how many had ridden inside the halftrack, a section-sized unit perhaps? A stone dropped into my stomach at the thought of up to eighteen Zekes occupying the outpost. _Eighteen!_ Even with surprise, and a stickie sniper on my side, I could not count my chances at assaulting the fortified compound as favourable. Just what did Izuru expect me to do, hobble after her? I could not fight, or even run if it all went tits-up.

* * *

I let out a small, unintended gasp of shock when Izuru's soft voice startled me. "What do you observe?" She dropped back down beside me and accepted the rifle when I offered it to her.

"Um…" I took a second to recover from the suddenness of her reappearance and another to gather my thoughts. "I saw – I saw three Zekes on stag outside, two by the roadblock, one more guarding the MT."

"From my vantage I observed another guarding the transport that is out of your line of sight." Izuru said, sweeping the compound after replacing the magazine she had taken. "Four targets outside. What is stag?"

"Guard duty. Reckon there ain't gonna be more than eighteen Zekes in total."

"Why?"

I recounted my estimation to Izuru, explaining the number inside the halftrack was my only concern. "I d—I dunno whether I can do this," I then added nervously.

Laying her rifle down, Izuru looked over at me. "Are you able to scale difficult terrain with one good foot?"

"Nah, not like this." I shook my head adamantly. Even the slightest pressure on my left foot was agony.

"I can steal through the enemy's camp unobserved. I cannot do so with you hauling on my skirts."

Flummoxed, I suggested waiting until morning. "Zeke might've moved on then."

"We may wait until morning, that is your choice, though come the light and the enemy has not broken camp we will be forced to remain in hiding up here for the rest of the day, and I do not intend to waste it sitting idle."

"You've got a sniper rifle."

"And am able to choose my own engagements, but this situation does not call for the Arowana, rather stealth and subtlety; at least up to a certain point. Be prepared for violence and an abundance of noise."

"I'm not ready for this." I gulped, closing my eyes and lowering my head.

"Open your eyes," Izuru said in a commanding tone.

"I dunno how to assault a building, they didn't teach us how."

"Then I will show you. You need only open your eyes."

"What the…?" I blinked, rubbing my eyes, unsure if they were playing tricks on me. Izuru had placed a pair of boots between us. "Where?"

"The Rangers provide for their own." Izuru slid the pair over to me.

"Mm, I'm no Ranger," I grunted, ashamed I was needing to rely on xenos charity to survive. "I can't even be a sergeant."

"Does being a sergeant really matter to you that much?"

"It's a sign of respect, big respect. You're the tough bloke, the one who gets his lads through the shit and can laugh and joke easily about it afterwards. Not many get to be a sarn't at my age." I examined the boots, feeling the strange pairing of black leather and cotton under my fingertips. "I couldn't be the tough bloke." I felt a tightness inside my throat as I said it. Now I felt even more ashamed.

"Take heart that your friends are safe for the moment. Think of their faces, for tomorrow you shall be together again," Izuru said.

I Kicked off my old rubber-soled boot after unlacing it, glad to be rid of the cause of so many aches and sores. "Fuckin' hate those boots. Hate 'em worse than all of Zeke combined," I moaned, tugging down the sock and massaging the sore skin. To combat the blisters on the back of my ankles acquired from the coarse leather rubbing through the sock I had stuck plasters on the patches of skin affected worst. Their effect was minimal but saved me from the worst of the chafing and any further blistering.

"Do you hate Zeke?"

"Nah, not Zeke, just you."

Fleetingly confused, Izuru clicked the top dial on her scope back and forth, not knowing if I was serious.

"How d'you know what size to look for anyway?" I asked, loosening the laces and working my foot inside the boot. Guard-issue footwear was one-size-fits-all, for me either large, or far too large. This pair did not appear to be standard-issue but felt far more comfortable on the feet than the all-leather stompers most regiments wore.

"It is interesting the details one can attain when they are forced to improvise." Izuru made to intervene when I had both boots on and was fumbling with the loose laces.

"No." I waved her hand away. "Piss off. I can tie my own bloody laces, they taught me _that_."

"Tie the loose ends around your legs. They will provide better support that way," Izuru said gently.

Taking Izuru's advice, albeit reluctantly, I finished lacing the boots, making sure they were tied tightly.

"Where d'you get 'em from anyway?"

"The humans were quite forthcoming with their equipment." Izuru showed me an M-36 Kantrael with an oversized barrel and optics, sitting the weapon in the space between us then placing a monocular on a stand beside it.

"I never even saw a thing." I said plainly, shrugging in disbelief. "So we don't 'ave to worry about any guys on uh…"

"Overwatch."

"Yeah. But a long-las ain't gonna do any good if we've got a room-to-room detail."

"I have no intention of using it." Izuru instead drew a knife and a handgun. "Nor the Moses," she added, unloading the ammunition and passing it to me.

"No." I pushed the butt away.

"…Why? This belongs to you."

"Later. Let's bang through this checkpoint while it's still dark."

Swallowing I checked the single magazine of KA, feeling the weight of it, trying to appear unconcerned in front of the Ranger. "How many left in the mag?"

"Five fired," Izuru said. "Be conservative with your ammunition."

"Yeah." I made a mental count. "Let's go."

Clambering across the rocks in Izuru's wake, I edged down towards the bulky shapes of the parked vehicles, struggling to put one foot after the other. I was fumbling like a blind man. Izuru had already dropped out of sight between the convex roof and the rock and was waiting for me down on the ground. _What the hell are you doing up here, James?_ Feeling the ledge fall away next to my foot I froze, petrified at the fifteen foot drop down to the ground. Two gold specks, beacons, stared up at me, willing me to make the jump. _Impossible, I can't jump this._ The head of one of the Zekes guarding the MT I could see in front of the Horus. He would definitely hear the loud slap of bootheels on concrete and come to investigate. And there was no hope of climbing down the rest of the way owing to the cliff-face curving inwards sharply, offering no suitable purchase for my feet.

Stuck where I was, I turned to face outwards and shook my head, raising my hand in confusion, imploring Izuru to help me. In response, Izuru gestured upwards. _Jump down._ Easing my slung KA off, I weighed it in both hands then gently tossed it down to Izuru who caught it deftly and leant it against the wall next to her weapons, extending her arms in anticipation of catching me when I jumped.

" _No_ ," I mouthed anxiously. _It's too far_.

 _Jump down. I will catch you,_ Izuru beckoned, shooting a glance over her shoulder.

Clamping my teeth together I drew my lips back, trying to work up enough courage to push out from the cliff. _Come on, do it_. _Do it now_. Taking a breath, I tensed, and leapt. In freefall for less than a second I gave an unintended _oof_ as I landed in Izuru's grasp. In contrast Izuru stayed completely silent and was not even staggered by the 122 pounds of human weighed down with body armour falling into her arms. Numb at the sudden loss in momentum I felt my boots be gently reunited with solid ground, wincing as my left foot protested. I nodded in silent gratitude when Izuru passed me my KA.

"Distract him," she whispered in my ear, aiming a finger at where the first of the two Zekes stood on guard and drawing her knife.

 _How?_ I leant underneath the Horus and saw a pair of boots at the front belonging to the Zeke. Digging inside a trouser pocket I found a squashed packet of cigarettes and shook it, hearing a few fags shaking around inside. It gave me an idea.

"Bollocks." I heard the Zeke swear inbetween patting down his pockets in search of something. The click of a lighter persuaded me to move closer. Putting my trust in Izuru, I slung my KA and offered a cigarette to the Zeke when I rounded the mudguard covering one of the large tyres.

"Aah, ta." The Zeke accepted the cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, glancing at me when he raised his lighter. "What the fu—"

A hand snaked around the Zeke's face, clamping down on his mouth, stifling his sudden gasp. From behind, Izuru had crept up on the Zeke and now plunged her knife into his side, killing him instantly. Retaining her tight grip on the limp body, Izuru dragged it back behind the Horus and very slowly lowered him underneath it.

"Wear this." Izuru returned with the Zeke's helmet. "Remove that," she said about my flak jacket.

Now impersonating a Zeke, I exchanged my sack-covered helmet for the Zeke's grey-painted cover, divesting myself of my body armour to further the disguise.

"Again." Izuru indicated that I was to employ the same trick on the other Zeke once his patrol route brought him close enough to the MT for her to strike.

Adopting the casual stroll of a grunt high on a string of unexpected victories, I sauntered past the parked motorcycle combination and around the long nose of the halftrack, catching sight of the other Zeke leaning against the mud-streaked flank. My trick with the cigarette worked again, at least for a few seconds. "Who the—? You're not Cain."

The Zeke, realising I was not the same man he had been put on stag with, opened his mouth to shout. As he drew breath, Izuru's forearm clamped down on his windpipe, stifling any shout he might have given. The Zeke's body tensed for a moment before the sharp pain from the knife in his kidneys caused his body to seize up.

"Good." Izuru gracefully lowered the Zeke as if he were a dancing partner and hid him underneath the halftrack. "Let the other humans see you, or they will grow suspicious."

"Right." I leant nonchalantly against the large grill above the bumper, eyeing the two Zekes standing together beside the concrete barricades just across from the MT park.

"Distract the human that is further away." I heard Izuru mutter.

"Wait for 'em to separate first." I wanted the two to be as far from each other as possible before going over. The vacant lots where vehicles would normally have been parked offered no places of concealment for Izuru to cross unobserved. The partition dividing it from the highway was only a ten foot high steel fence with coiled wire running along the top. Even a sleep-deprived Zeke with half an eye open would spot a darting figure through the gaps without trouble and raise the alarm.

"Execute," Izuru said when the Zeke pair parted.

Hoping she had not meant it in a literal sense, I wandered over in the direction of the fence, keeping my gait natural and my hands inside my pockets. A single door set in the wire opened out onto a pathway running beside the road which was sunken slightly, allowing any observers to see down onto the traffic. The Zeke that had remained on the near-side of the road looked my way when I pushed open the door. His gaze lingered on me for an uncomfortable second, soon returning to where it had been before. Keeping the Zeke visible in the corner of my eye I clambered up onto the narrow walkway that ran above the road and strolled across to the other side, looking for where the last Zeke had disappeared to, finding him lodged in a tiny hut no bigger than a cubicle away from the other Zeke's sight. Presumably it was a shelter for the sentries monitoring the road. With both Zekes apart and out of each other's sight, my distraction method was unnecessary. Just like that, the Zeke that had paid me the cursory glance had vanished from where he had stood when I turned back to look. _How does she do it?_

The freshly-cleaned knife advanced on me from the darkness, Izuru fully intending for it to pierce human flesh again. "No," I whispered firmly, raising a hand in an attempt to bar her way.

A look of mild outrage crossed Izuru's face. "Stand aside." She glared, affronted that I was overcome with a strange new protectiveness of Zeke.

"Take him prisoner. He'll give us answers," I said, hoping Izuru would respect my decision.

"They have nothing I wish to know." Izuru loomed over me, a hooded shadow clutching her keen blade.

She was determined to kill every last one, I realised in growing fear. Her scarred face, ever impassive, wore a dark expression. Both of her eyes were black and pitiless, devoid of restraint and reason.

"He's more use to us alive than dead." I implored, trying feebly to motion Izuru away from the hut without making contact, fearing a violent reaction if I laid hands on her.

Reversing the knife, Izuru waved the ornate grip at me. "This is what we do to survive. I have no qualms with ending this little being's life if it permits us to live. I choose life. I want you to as well."

"I don't care." I shook my head. "It's wrong."

Assuming a disgusted, almost pained stare, Izuru flicked her arm languidly at the three dead Zekes. "Why the relapse of conscience now? You stood by and watched, you _watched_ me put down those sub-intelligent beasts with nary a murmur. Dispense with your good intentions, they do not belong in this place."

Forcing her way past me Izuru stole around the side of the hut and disappeared. Biting down on the denouncement on the tip of my tongue, I shut my mouth and waited, ears burning with shame. _Damn you, stickie_.

A soft rustle of clothing and Izuru was standing at my shoulder. Facing in the opposite direction she gazed down at me from under her hood. I could not look at her, or the knife in her hand. I had to see the Zeke though, see what Izuru had done with my own eyes. Much the same as it was outside the hut was near-pitch. A single table and chair took up the closet-sized space. There was a body draped over the table lying still. Despite the obvious I reached out for the Zeke and pushed at his shoulder. Nothing. No wounds were visible, nor was there any blood. Disbelief took over as I tugged the Zeke's sleeve back and felt for his wrist. A pulse, faint and infrequent, thudded.

Izuru was waiting, not having moved a muscle. Lost for words, my quizzical look was met with a blank, slightly veiled gaze that was so difficult to read. I would never understand her reasoning, it was so utterly alien.

* * *

"Leaving," I said after a tense silence where I had expected Izuru to make some clever comment, not be overcome with a loss of voice. Glancing down I saw the knife was still unsheathed. A dreamy expression had crept across her face.

"Oi, leaving." Once more verging on outright pleading, I waved a hand in front of Izuru's face.

Keeping her silence Izuru followed me back to where the MT was parked. Out of sight on the eastern horizon the sky was lightening up. Dawn could not have been far off.

"I can drive the-" I glanced back to see Izuru stray over to the doorway to the main building. "No!" I hissed in desperation.

"You secure the ground floor. I shall be upstairs."

Without a doubt Izuru was unequivocally mad, an opinion I chose not to voice lest she licked me with that knife she wielded with such frightening talent. Shaking my head in disagreement I stood against the wall beside the door and waited as Izuru tugged the thick handle downwards. Alone and with only a knife, she would die. _Just what am I doing here then_? I seethed, unable to work out why I was not beating a swift retreat from the compound and instead assisting a mentally-unstable stickie in what could only be described as a vengeance-fuelled rampage.

"No." I tried one last time to dissuade Izuru. She ignored me and pulled open the steel door, slipping inside. Darting in after her I blinked in the semi-darkness. A flight of stairs to the left went up to the first floor. To the right a short corridor led down to an open doorway on the left. Ransacked thoroughly in the short time it had been under new management, the once meticulously-clean checkpoint, presumably garrisoned by some Cadian unit before the invasion, was now strewn with filth left by Zeke. Twisted wrappers and empty ratpacks lay about. A crushed can containing alcohol rolled away when I brushed it with my foot, clinking against the opposite wall. Dense snores punctuated by coughs floated in from the other room.

"Where…?" I began. Izuru was already climbing the stairs and had not heard, leaving me alone on the ground floor. Treading silently closer to the open door I heard the creak of bedsprings. A snort from a snoozing Zeke made me pause in the middle of setting my KA's safety and listen for footsteps. What was the litany of stealth again? I wracked my brains for the little column in my long-lost primer.

Eight bunks, three of them occupied by sleeping Zekes, were arranged around the sides of room. A pair of foldout tables had been pushed together in the centre, surrounded by hard-backed chairs. The remains of a meal heaped together from ratpacks was indispersed with sets of dice and card stacks. The dog-eared card towers having fallen sideways at one point, scattering over an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and a single Lho stick. Swallowing I looked past the Zekes at a door in the far corner of the room, hoping it was not about to be opened by more Zekes. Three was enough to deal with.

 _Now what do I do?_ Aside from a rifle I had no means of subduing the Zekes if they chose to put up a fight. Without any plan I was left standing in the doorway and feeling a fool. I was all for putting fire on Zeke if he himself was shooting at me with intent to waste my carcass. But this here, I wasn't wasting Zeke. This was proper murder, and these men had no idea of my presence. I felt a spike of pain in my gut, revulsion at what I was about to do.

 _I can't._ I took a step back, only then working out I could have solved the problem entirely by dealing Izuru a blow to the head with my rifle butt, knocking her unconscious and then forcefully dragging her away so she could not continue her unrestrained bout of slaughter. Enemy maybe, but Zeke had my sympathies when beset by such a terror.

On the floor above a loud _bang_ sounded. Turning pale in fear I heard movement on the other side of the door. _Oh, no, no, no_. I blanched, the hair on my arms standing on end when a booming staccato rattle of an automatic joined the frenetic gunshots. Almost in unison, other automatics opened up, dominating the first floor with noise. Flinging the door open, a Zeke clutching a newspaper and holding up his loose trousers with his other hand stumbled out of the toilet. Seeing me he raised his paper in front of his face, his mouth opening wide in shock. With nothing to hold them up his trousers fell around his ankles. "Wait!" he cried.

"Stay there!" I aimed my KA, swinging it around when the other Zekes awoke.

"Wha's goin' on?" The Zeke closest to the trouserless man flailed about.

"ENEMY!" Sizing up the situation in a heartbeat, another Zeke dove off his bunk, reaching out for a Kantrael that was leant against an adjacent bunk.

"Don't." I barked, squeezing the KA's trigger and hitting the alert Zeke twice in the left shoulder. Everything went quiet then. My eardrums rang, protesting from the horrifically loud bangs the rifle gave. With my control over the situation ebbing I swung my KA around to the three other Zekes and fired. I kept firing even when smoke obscured my vision, only relenting when the KA ran empty.

Tottering back out into the corridor, the muzzle of my empty rifle dragging along the floor, I clutched at my throbbing head, weighed down by the lead weight of the Zeke helmet. Impaired by my streaming eyes I looked down at my boot soles. Two footprints trailed back into the bunk room leaving sticky red marks.

" _Sticky_. _Stickie_ ," I said without hearing my words just a constant _thuthudthuthudthuthud_ hammering inside my head.

Wrappers crackled underfoot, cans split, the trail of red continued unbroken through the waste up until my feet hit the bottom of the stairs. Slogging up the steps I leant against the wall and slid down the cracked plaster, ending up half-way up, half-way down the flight.

A blur of movement on the floor above made me instinctively point my KA in its vague direction and pull the trigger, never mind I was carrying an empty rifle. A pair of brown leather boots with slightly curving toes walked calmly down the stairs, their owner's body language too serene in the carnage above and below.

Izuru slowly collapsed opposite me. Her fur-lined jacket, grey normally, was stained a dark red, the fur matted with blood. From the door to the first floor a cloud of gunsmoke drifted. Wiping away the wetness, I saw Izuru's hood had fallen back. Her cap and goggles were gone leaving her head bare. Blood oozed from a bullet wound an inch above her left ear, the hair around it infested with little sparkling crystals. Izuru's forehead, nose, and cheeks were streaked with human blood. Her damaged right eye gummed shut.

Overcome with weariness and, unwilling to move, I broke out the KA's magazine, letting the empty steel fall onto the step below me, giving a loud _clack_ that was lost in my deaf state. Without any spare ammunition I let the rifle go slack in my grip. Sniffing blood I glanced at Izuru who, at first, appeared to be in the same unresponsive stupor as I was. Then, opening one eye she extended an arm with fingers outstretched to me. Sickness and apathy turned me away. It was her fault this had happened, and my blind following that dragged me into it. We were both at fault. Neither of us should have been there.

 _What have we done?_

A while later the numbness in my ears had gradually receded, enough for me to hear myself, even if it was still faint. "Bit of more'n you could chew there, our stickie," I breathed.

Sleepily, Izuru shifted her body, having lost feeling in it from where she had slumped on the steps.

"Leaving." I pushed off against the steps, rising unsteadily, still holding the empty KA.

"I can't," Izuru whispered, huddling against the wall.

"They shot you in the head, not the legs."

"Call me liar, for I have not been truthful as to…" Izuru faltered.

"What?"

"I may have to trouble you for medical aid." Izuru blinked, wiping blood from her brow. "Please, help me."

"...Should've told me before." I muttered, helping Izuru out of her blood-soaked jacket.

"And what would you have done?" Izuru snapped bitterly, coughing into the crook of her arm.

"Wouldn't have let you do this. How long have you been coughing up blood?" I asked, seeing the wet flecks Izuru was trying to keep hidden.

"Worry not for that. I must show you." Izuru tried to unbutton the camouflaged suit she wore underneath her jacket. Her wet fingers could not find purchase on the small buttons, prompting me to assist her.

"Where?" I peeled back the soot-blackened shirt, exposing a dark grey compression vest, the top half of a two piece suit of under armour.

"Right hip." Izuru twisted her body, drawing back the open shirt, revealing her clothing underneath to be perforated.

"When?" Shrapnel was embedded in her skin, extending from her hip to just below her right breast.

Izuru leant her head back against the wall and said, "not one human week ago."

"Doin' better than I did then," I said grimly.

"When?"

"Nemtess, wasn't it? Had to be the most un-stickie like thing you did there."

"Your kind are a means to an end-" Izuru broke off, clenching a fist and pounding it against her leg when my fingertips brushed the metal embedded in her side. "I need you to cut it out." Izuru offered the knife to me, slick with blood as it was.

Refusing to take the knife I fixed Izuru with a stern glare. "I'm not gonna cut it out. I'll take you to Ral. He'll get you fixed. Gimme your arm."

"No. Bring him here. My presence cannot be revealed." Izuru removed my hand from her arm with surprising forcefulness, firmly planting herself on the step and refusing to budge.

"Bit late for that now, isn't it?"

"Never too late." Izuru shoved me away angrily. "Go."

"You're not squatting here like a cripple whilst I've still got me working arms and legs. There's bunks downstairs. No with your permission, I'm gonna carry you down there."

In the wake of Izuru's protests I dragged an arm over my shoulders and pulled her upright, a considerable effort owing to the substantial difference in height between us.

"I'll just set you down 'ere. Never mind Zeke, he won't bother you," I said after half-dragging Izuru into the bunk room and helping her lie down. Wafting away the clinging smoke I searched amongst the Zeke webbing that was strewn across top bunks or hanging from the steel bedposts, finding a felt-covered water bottle stuffed inside a belt carrier. I felt a twinge of unease when I inadvertently made eye contact with a dead Zeke sitting in front of a wall spattered with blood who gazed at me almost accusingly. I was rifling through his gear after all.

I reached down and shut the man's eyes. "Nothin' personal, mate, you or me."

Izuru looked up at me when I returned with the water. "I am impressed. Four to one; steep odds for a human."

Withholding a scornful remark I pulled the cork stopper from the bottle and tipped it towards Izuru's mouth. "Now you be a good stickie and drink up."

Tugging the bottle from my grasp Izuru poured the contents over her head, gasping as watery blood ran down from her scalp and dripped from her chin. Wiping her face clean on her sleeve she hurled the bottle across the room. The vigorous manner in which Izuru threw the bottle, not least the felt-muffled clatter against the wall, alarmed me. Izuru unexpectedly grabbing my hand prevented me from springing back. "You calm down now there, our stickie," she said, perfectly imitating my accent down to a T, her eyes tight shut.

"You calm down now there, our stickie," I spoke before realising Izuru had known what I was about to say.

"Oi, what d'you do that for?" she grunted.

"Oi, what d'you do that for?" I blurted.

"Alright, stop that."

"Alright, stop that." I battered at the iron grip Izuru had my hand in. "Enough," I shouted after working my hand free. Red marks from the stickie's fingers stood out on the skin.

"You do." Izuru, murmured, opening her good eye.

"You're daft." I moved out of Izuru's reach, leaving her lying on the bunk. Smarting, I scooped up a fallen M-36 and sought out fresh air.

There was a definite greyness in the cloudy sky now, and it was light enough to see. With no Zekes around to prevent their use, I climbed aboard the turretless Horus and peered inside. Where the normally enclosed cannon was a lighter calibre autocannon had been installed. The armoured car and the halftrack were useless to me however. I had never been taught how to drive during training.

 _What about you?_ I trotted over to the motorcycle combination. Slightly intimidated by how big both bike and sidecar were together I ran my hands over the ignition and gears which were bolted to the flank. The name Zik was painted in yellow letters above the gear shift. _Zik_. It wasn't any name I had heard of before. It sounded too much like Zeke for my liking. A Vraks-pattern stubber loaded with a belt of ammunition was mounted to a pintle in front of the sidecar's compartment. I had made use of the Vraks before and was aware of its lethality, not to mention the disturbing noise it made. _I'll take you_.

Confident I could drive the bike I retrieved my flak jacket, cover, and the sniper rifle Izuru had carried – Arowana she had called it? The Kazalak's bigger brother. Pausing beside the sidecar, I glanced back at the open door, silently debating on a matter that had only just occurred to me.

Asleep or unconscious, Izuru gave no reaction to my presence when I returned to the bunk room, nor when I began the laborious process of hauling the Zekes out by their ankles. I tried to ignore the thickening trail of blood I was forced to walk over repeatedly, shining bright on the floor and sticking to my heels. Having arranged the four Zekes in a rough line outside, I covered them up with a bedsheet. I knew there were more upstairs. But I wasn't sure I wanted to see what Izuru had done to them, wracked with guilt over the four I had mown down as I was.

" _No slack_ ," I muttered remorsefully, tugging the dirtied bedsheet over the feet protruding from the bottom. Not content to leave the unconscious Zeke in the hut at Izuru's mercy, I half-dragged, half-carried his bulk across the road and manhandled him into the sidecar where I had stowed the Arowana. Shivering with anticipation in the pre-dawn cold I sat on the leather seat once again and studied the controls. A switch next to the gear shift was the ignition. I turned it, expecting to hear something stir and was rewarded with nothing. The handbrake was off, I had the Zik in neutral, all I needed to do was kick-start it. Pushing down on the kick-starter I heard a whir, followed by the same when I tried again. _The engine's cold_ , I realised. With luck the carburettor had a cold start system which could be turned on with a lever. Groping around the engine I felt the wiggle of a moving part and bent down to check. Beneath a small lever were printed words. One of them said _start_ , the other, in shadow, I could not read. The lever itself was facing the latter so I pushed it forwards towards start. Jumping down on the kick-start I heard the cough as the engine struggled to kick in then a throaty roar, swelling when I twisted the throttle. "Whoa," I whispered, my body shaking from the powerful vibrations the engine was giving off. Pushing the gear shift into first, I released the brake and began to roll forwards. Heartened the Zik was working I drove it onto the highway and opened the throttle for the ride south to where, hopefully, the company was bivouacked.


	29. Chapter 28

**Highway 2, Cadia Secundus, 00:04**

No sooner had the rain abated, shovels began hacking away at sodden earth, broken out on Lieutenant Corta's orders. Restless and dispirited, Staff Sergeant Perandis threw down his fold-out spade and left his hole half dug, leaving the area where the remains of the company headquarters were located and walking amongst the foxholes the precious few men left in C-for-Cannon now occupied.

"Any news of Larn?" Perandis stopped by Aimo Garst's hole. The young fullscrew was closest to Larn out of all the men in the company.

"No, Staff Sarn't," Aimo said glumly. "Ain't no body though, so he's out there."

"Yeah, he's out there. That's why we're gonna go back and look for him right now whilst Mister Corta's got us bivouacked here."

"No need, Staff Sarn't." Aimo glanced back at Cyrano who had stood up eagerly. "We'll go get him."

Perandis looked beyond the cavalryman and saw the mess sergeant, Kat Katecka, and Ral Bleak materialise. "You sure? If Mister Corta packs us up and we move, we ain't coming back for you."

"Number one, Staff Sarn't. Never leave a lad behind, no matter 'ow much of a dosser he is." Aimo heaved the sling of his IM stubber onto his shoulder.

"Alright. But the big guns stay with us. You'll want to travel light, just weapons and ammo. I'll find some for you." Perandis moved off.

"Number one," Aimo muttered. "Wrong leavin' Larn behind."

"Agreed," Cyrano added, straightening his fur hat.

"Seemed a bit 'ard. But, life's unfair," Kat said.

"What you doin' here, Mess Sarn't? You got no business with Larn. He's my boy, not yours. You've got your lads with you."

Picking up his Lecta by the sling, Breezy Gale straightened his helmet. "Never thought of him as a particularly bad soul. If anyone can show Olen Azar up, it's him. Getting' too big for his boots that fella, struttin' about all high an' mighty in the comp'ny headquarters thinkin' a runner's a special job."

"You comin' too, Ral?"

Ral Bleak said nothing, just swapped his beret for hard cover and checked the load on his .338.

"Molke holdin' on?"

"Carillo's watching him. He's still unconscious," Ral said brusquely. "So are we gonna stand 'round here talking all night or are we gonna go out there and get our mate back?"

On Perandis returning with a tiny handful of ammunition for the .338s and M-36s, the search party, headed by Aimo, set out. Almost immediately after leaving the untidy mess of foxholes behind, the noise fell drastically to near silence. Keeping to a ditch on the east side of the highway, Aimo led Gale, Cyrano, Kat, and Ral north, his ears fixed for the telltale rumble of an engine or rattle of a track. Their cautious, plodding pace put very few klicks under their belts every hour. Aimo was worried about unmarked minefields that the Cadians seemed so fond of. It made sticking to the roadside a necessity. _What if James is still standing there?_ Aimo agonised over that thought. Would he have fallen asleep before Zeke found him, if Zeke had indeed struck out further than Rakka? _We're coming to get you, James. We'll bring you back, dead or alive_. If there wasn't any body then he wouldn't be pronounced dead, just missing in action as far too many men had been before him.

"Down." Aimo heard the whine of the motorcycle at the same time the others had, negating the need of a verbal order. Cyrano, Ral, Kat, and Gale hugged the side of the grassy bank as Aimo wriggled up to the edge of the road, poking his rifle through the gap in the steel barrier at the shape of a motorcycle and sidecar.

"That's a Zik." Gale, who had crawled up beside Aimo, said.

"Zeke?" Aimo misheard him.

"Enemy." Gale flicked the safety off his Lecta and aimed.

The rider was alone. Aimo could have sworn he had only heard the Zik and not the motorised column it recced ahead of. If this was indeed a recce probe then it was not a serious one.

"Hold your fire. I'll give him a warning shot." Aimo stood up behind the barrier and aimed his .338. The subsequent shot, cutting through the dawn silence violently, made the rider swerve suddenly, brake and come to a dead halt. He then toppled off his mount and scurried around the back. "Imperial. I'm imperial! Friendly!" he cried, waving frantically from behind the stationary Zik.

"I know that voice," Aimo laughed, vaulting the barrier and running over to where the rider cowered. "James?"

"James?" Gale squinted confusedly.

"Found our boy," Cyrano grinned, helping Ral up and over the barrier.

"Aimo?" Larn stood up slowly and was greeted enthusiastically by Aimo who hugged him and shook his hand warmly. After another round of hand-pumping from Ral, Kat, and Cyrano, Aimo stepped back and studied his best friend. "Thought that mine had you bang to rights, mate."

Larn looked terribly drawn-out and not at all happy to be back with his mates, Aimo remarked inwardly. What had happened to him?

"Got to be the only bloke I know who can go hand-to-hand with a mine and win," Gale snorted. "Where'd you get the Zik from?"

"Remarkably good nick." Kat noted. "Who's this?" he pointed at a passenger in the sidecar who appeared to be asleep.

"Zeke pris'ner," Larn said shortly.

"D'you take the bike off him?"

"Yeah. No. Long story."

"Well, tell it to us on the ride back." Gale made to haul the Zeke out of the sidecar.

"He ain't dead. Unconscious."

"Oh, you didn't waste him? Why not?" Gale frowned and felt for the Zeke's pulse.

"Be smart, man," Cyrano snapped. "He can give us information. Mister Corta shall be pleased."

"I'm not goin' back yet," Larn said, "I need you, Ral, only you."

"Why's that?"

"Uh, w-wounded Zeke, an officer." Larn's eyes were on the ground. "I need you, Ral, please."

"This bike. You didn't steal it off Zeke, did you?" Aimo asked. "How many more Zeke are there, and where are they?"

"There's none," Larn said in a little voice. "I got 'em all."

Confused, disbelieving looks were thrown around. Aimo however did believe what his friend was saying, even if he was acting subdued and clammy. "Where, mate?"

"Back up the road. Checkpoint."

"We passed through there yesterday, yeah. There weren't no-one there though."

"Zeke mob."

"Zeke? How many?" Aimo glanced worriedly at Ral.

"Dunno. Ten, fifteen maybe."

"Right," Aimo decided, "I'm going with James. Ral, you are too. Gale, Cyrano, Kat, I want two of you to ditty-bop with this Zeke back to Mister Corta and get him caught up with the situation."

Kat volunteered to go back immediately. "Fine," he said as he dragged the Zeke out of the sidecar. "You'd better not be too heavy, you bastard."

Cyrano shrugged. "Aah, one Zeke is little trouble. I have carried my other half on my back before for many, many miles."

"Oh, your wife?" Gale said.

"No." Cyrano looked mildly offended. "My steed."

To Aimo's relief the Zik, being a larger than normal motorbike, could carry him, Larn, and Ral, with Gale, the heaviest, occupying the sidecar. Having control of the vehicle's mounted weapon made the cook perk up significantly.

"Didn't know you could ride, James." Aimo looked over Larn's shoulder at the road ahead as Larn tried to restart the bike.

"Me granddad rode bikes when he was young."

"He teach you?"

"Only had the one lesson. I fell off and that was it."

"I guess sidecars help," Ral said. Perching unsteadily behind Aimo he put his arms around Aimo's waist, prompting a squawk of indignation from him.

"Get off, I don't go for that," Aimo shoved his elbow backwards into Ral's stomach. "Hold on with your knees or something."

Hearing the Zik's engine kick into life, Aimo held on as Larn turned the bike around and pointed it northwards. Cyrano waved goodbye before taking the unconscious Zeke out of Kat's grasp and slinging him over his shoulder, disappearing over the rail and down the embankment.

* * *

The Zik's nippiness took a plunge with the addition of three passengers. Balking initially at Gale accompanying us as opposed to Cyrano, I felt considerably better when I remembered the armoured car and half-track. I hoped either Aimo, Ral, or Gale could drive. I did not want to have to leave or disable both vehicles when the company was so desperately lacking in MT and those two were within such easy access.

"Slow it down a bit." Aimo's voice was loud in my ear when the blocky shapes of the compound came into view.

I shook my head and accelerated regardless of Aimo's reservations. It was less than an hour since I had ridden south. With luck the Zeke push would wait for their recce element to report back before using the highway, allowing us time to recover the MT and drive it back to the company. By the time Zeke sent another probe forwards to investigate their unit's disappearance, we would be long gone.

"Bagged us a doozy of a ride here." Gale noted the pristine armoured car and half-track with approval.

"Ral." I beckoned for Ral to follow me once I had pulled up in front of the MT. "You'd better 'ave your medic stuff or we're sunk."

"No prob. Got it here with me." Ral hefted his Unit One bag.

Gale clambered out of the sidecar and shuffled around, massaging his numb buttocks. "Makes your legs and arse ache, doesn't it?"

"You never had it so good!" Aimo sniped. "You in the sidecar, gettin' to ride in luxury an' all."

"Be nice." Ral said over his shoulder. "This you?" he asked about the four Zekes covered by the bedsheet.

"Yeah," I grunted, trying not to look at the shapes of the bodies when I passed by.

"Yep, they are confirmed." Aimo kicked one of the Zeke's legs. "One for four's a nice ratio."

"Ratio?" You sound like an officer, always pruning about kill-ratios." Gale lifted the corner of a bedsheet and looked under. "Wasted."

Incensed by the callous treatment Aimo and Gale were giving the dead Zeke's I led Ral inside the bunkroom and over to the bunk where Izuru lay.

"Well?" I hovered anxiously on the other side of the bunk when Ral set down his Unit One bag and began examining Izuru.

"Well, what?" Ral lifted Izuru's eyelid, seeing she was conscious and stirring.

"No reservations?" I sat down on the adjacent bunk and leant forwards on my knees.

"Whether you're one of us, one of Zeke, or falling under neither of the above, I will always treat you to the best of my abilities," Ral said solemnly.

"Even xenos?"

"Even xenos."

"Say if you shot her beforehand, and she needed aid?"

"I will always treat casualties."

"Our lot comes first though. How's Molke?"

"Carillo's with him. Molke hasn't regained consciousness though." Ral's voice lowered. "I'm worried he might never awaken. It might be for the better though as right now there's no facilities, no surgeon; I haven't even got any morphia left to placate him if he does. Poor lad will be in terrible pain."

I felt my stomach lurch at the thought of Molke awake and in agony. _Poor lad_ , I agreed solidly with Ral. I would make it my first call to apologise sincerely to Molke when he woke up.

"Can you hear me?" Ral leant over Izuru and put an ear close to her mouth.

"Yes. I remember you," Izuru smiled. "The healer from the Grace."

"Took some lead from young Larn over there. Nine-milly hollow-point fragment wasn't it?" Ral said cheerfully.

"I remember." Izuru twisted her head and looked across at me.

"Promised I'd do better next time, I'd aim for your 'ead." I said bluntly, trying to keep my face impassive. "Can't quite manage it though."

"The graze on the side of your head appears to have closed up by itself," Ral noted. "It's far too recent to have done so naturally. Your blood is also crystalline, not liquid."

"We have the ability to seal wounds through mental commands. Passive biomancy I think would be the correct term," Izuru replied. "Were I to permit you to examine my body you would find numerous wounds sustained in recent weeks that would be debilitating to a regular human. Not to an Eldar, even to an oddball like I am. As I recall telling my cohort, I am loathe to depend on human charity, but I find myself out of allies."

"S'cuse me." Ral bent over to see the shrapnel embedded in Izuru's side. "You can seal wounds but not pull metal out… Hmm."

"Self-surgery with a wraithbone blade would be risky."

"Okay, I'm gonna have to cut the fabric around the wound away. It might do in your shirt, so apologies in advance." Ral dug out a pair of scissors and some tweezers. "Tools are clean, hands aren't. Apologies for that too." Bringing his bag with him, Ral came round the other side of the bunk and gestured for me to take up his former position opposite him. "This will hurt. There's no morphia."

"Your primitive medication would have no effect on me," Izuru said.

"Fine, okay." Ral lined up the scissor blades and dug them into the black fabric some distance from the wound area. "Thought you were having a heart attack there for a moment when I listened."

"Our hearts beat at a far higher rate than that of a human's. We are quite unlike you biologically, however similar we appear on the outside."

"Yeah, uh, James, can you talk to her," Ral glanced up at me. "I need to concentrate here."

"She ain't badly hurt. Not like she's in danger of dyin' or anything," I said defensively.

"Well if you won't talk to her then bugger off. Go police up some of that Zeke gear, get it loaded into the track. No use sitting 'round here doing nothing."

Adopting the same manner as if I was trying to keep a dying grunt awake, I leant forwards. "Okay, what's your name?"

"Izuru Numerial?" Baffled, Izuru took a moment to stare at me in dismay.

"Right, where you from?"

"Look at her!" Ral seen I was staring at the floor.

"Where you from?" I repeated, this time looking Izuru in the eye.

Blinking slowly, Izuru replied as if glad to be asked such a question. "I am from the Craftworld Ulthanash Shelwé."

"Yeah. You got a family?"

"…You know that."

"Got a short memory I 'ave. Tell me about 'em."

"I have two beautiful children, sired by a pureblood of the Craftworld Alaitoc. Ilic and Korsarro are their names."

"Thought you were from this Ulfway place?"

Izuru sighed, the action apparently causing an acute pain in her side. "I was born on Lyanden, nurtured and wed on Alaitoc, and trained for war on Ulthwé."

"Well-travelled then. Your kids, they're waiting for you on Ulfway?"

"No."

"Husband? He waitin' for you?"

The mention of Izuru's family sparked a moment of sadness in her eye, which grew mournful but only for a second.

"Alright, fine, what do you do then?"

"What do I do? In what context?"

"What d'you do for a living?"

"I am a ranger, as you know, a captain of the Second Ranger Caste of Ulthwé, The Nightspear's Own."

"Never said you was a captain." I paled at the notion that Izuru was an officer.

" _Were_ a captain. Must I instruct you on the finer intricacies of human dialect…?"

I stirred uneasily at the slyness in Izuru's voice. "Cheers for that, Ral."

"Keep the ball rolling, pal, I'm just doing my job," Ral muttered.

"And where are you from?" Izuru asked me, wincing as Ral's tweezers pried a chunk or metal out.

"Who's asking the fucking questions, you or me, stickie?" I rose from the bunk indignantly and began to pace around the room with hands on hips.

"We've had a hard week," Ral said quickly.

"Likewise. How goes the process?" Izuru's chin touched her breast as she tried to watch Ral work.

"Smoothly. You must have a cast-iron ribcage or that metal would have burrowed inside it. From what I can see, none of the shrapnel penetrated it. It means I can just pull it out and give you dressings. Have to apply sulpha as well."

A cry of alarm from Gale, having appeared unannounced in the bunkroom, made me jump.

"Eurgh, is that a stickie?" Gale sneered. "Where's that Zeke officer you told us about, Larn?"

Gale had three rifles over one shoulder: an M-35, a Vintok, and a KA. On the other was a Castra forty-millimetre. His Lecta was in his hands.

"Seeing her there," I said, sticking my hands in my pockets unconcernedly.

"I was masquerading as a Chaos-affiliated merc—" Izuru began, only for Ral to cut her off.

"This one isn't a Zeke officer. Let's just get our facts straight."

"Well what is she then?" Gale edged closer and stared down at Izuru's cut-up shirt and the grey marks of the shrapnel standing out on her pale flesh.

"An advisor," I said.

"Consultant." Izuru made to rise up from the bunk but Ral protested.

"Not finished yet, sorry."

"Hang on, that stickie looks familiar," Gale gawked. "Damned if I haven't seen her before somewhere."

"She's the one that negotiated passage off Nemtess for us," Ral said loudly. "It's thanks to her we're here right now."

Turning my back I made a face for that was not strictly true. The compromise I made with the Inquisitor still loomed over me like a storm cloud about to break.

"Oh well, I wouldn't have rated a stickie being concerned with what happened to our lot. You're all supposed to hate us," Gale pointed out, his armoury clacking together on his back. "Bloody mad you lot trying to throw in with us."

Even lying down, Izuru made her voice heard. "Your kind are primitive, incompetent, underdeveloped barbarians, but you are currently the lesser of a great many evils that shall shortly prey on the naked galaxy. Such truces have existed in the past. It is my mentor's wish that we temporarily set aside our differences and work towards a common goal."

Not listening to a word Izuru had said, Gale parked himself on a bunk as far away as was possible from her, shaking his acquired weaponry off and removing his helmet.

"Oi." I leant on the metal frame above where Gale sat. "That MT, does it work?"

"Uh, Aimo's checking 'em over." Gale scratched at the stubble on his chin.

"Aimo's checking over the MT? Good. I need you to police up some dead Zeke's upstairs, most kosh." I jerked my thumb over my shoulder.

"Don't give me any o' your lip, _Private_ ," Gale smirked. "This is the exact reason why you – A – lost Ten Platoon, and – B – got punted down to private. You can't go ordering NCOs around like you're still one of them. It's your mess, so you go clean it up."

"Well that's the thing. It ain't my mess…" I nodded my head at Izuru. "It's hers. So how 'bout as a thank-you you diddly-bop upstairs and start bagging and tagging her confirmed, just make sure you arrange 'em underneath that sheet outside."

"You're a piece of work, Larn," Gale glared. "You and your stickie."

"Gimme that weapon." I lunged for the KA Gale had tossed on the bunk. "That too." I pulled the Castra away from Gale before he could haul them off with him.

Whilst I was butting heads with Gale, Ral was finishing plucking the shards out of Izuru. He tutted at Gale's back as the cook stalked out of the bunkroom, kicking a fallen aquila out of his path. "Dear."

"What are…?" Izuru propped herself up on her elbows, her face a picture of concern as Ral poured sulpha powder on the freshly-cleaned wounds.

"Just standard medical procedure, sulpha prevents an infection from developing."

"A placebo, I cannot feel a thing." Izuru made to brush off the thin powder. "Such primitive measures."

"And that sidearm you carry?" Ral had spied the Moses sitting in a poorly-fitting stickie holster on Izuru's left hip. "Odd you've got that now."

Izuru made no reply to that remark.

"You'd be in trouble if Gale was a sarn't of infantry," Ral remarked coolly when I ambled over.

"He ain't no grunt, he's a bloody cook and that's how it's gonna stay." I plonked myself down on the bunk next to Izuru and checked the load on my weapons. "You finished yet?"

"Such an insubordinate streak is punishable by execution." Izuru looked at me gravely. "I understand I do not know the context behind your demotion, but if it concerns your conduct with superior officers then it _must_ stop."

"I agree with her." Ral swallowed. "Don't know why, but yeah."

Rocking the KA's full magazine back into place angrily I stood up and said, quite coldly, "I hate all officers," and stormed outside.

Aimo was sitting in the driver's seat of the half-track. He stuck a hand out of the open side panel and waved when he saw me.

"Can you drive?" I leant against the car's angled flank wearily. "Gimme short answers."

"Yeah, easy." Aimo grinned, uprooting from his seat and climbing into the passenger compartment. "Come 'round the back!"

Aimo opened the rear door and climbed out, wiping his hands down on his trousers. "Perfect, there's still plenty in the tank too."

"And the scout car?"

"Still got to look over it."

"Right. Be quick."

"Hmph, roger.

"Oi, it weren't no Zeke officer I dragged you all out 'ere for." I caught Aimo's arm before he could disappear inside the Horus. "It's the stickie."

"Our friend from Nemtess?" Aimo raised his eyebrows. "Interesting."

"Number ten, Aimo, she ain't our friend. Let's be real about this. All she's looking for is another one of her lot that dropped from orbit with us. Once she's found her then she's off out of 'ere without a second thought. I saw her work over these Zekes and she honestly don't care how many humans she has to waste. She's deranged, unhinged. She likes taking that blade of hers into bodies too much. Put the bloody wind up me, it did."

Aimo, listening quietly to me, said, "well, I reckon we're alright then. Ain't gotta worry about that knife of hers as long as you're 'ere."

"What d'you mean?"

"She likes you."

"Number ten also, mate," I shuddered. "Number one-chonking-thousand. The stickie said I was gonna help her find her friend because I made a promise to her on the ship that I would look out for Keladi. I lost Keladi when we landed, now Izuru's bloody found me again and won't leave me alone until Keladi's safe with her. _That's_ the reason she's here." I kicked at the half-track's tyre in frustration. "How could you bloody think that? Are you daft?"

"Whoa, mate, I'm sorry if I overstepped." Aimo, flabbergasted, raised his hands and stepped back as if afraid I might take a swing at him. "It's just I spoke to her, so I did."

"What?" I felt my temper rising.

"When you were in the Pen, I went outside the wire and did in a tank Zeke was trying to fix up. I met Izuru out there."

"What did she say to you?" I said in a quietly menacing tone.

"Something about not being able to see my child ever again or some such bollocks. She asked about you too."

I shook my head in silent derision. "I don't believe it. Aimo, this thing, this history between me and this stickie, it goes back a lot longer than Nemtess, alright? Call it fate or whatever you want, but I don't buy it. It's one massive coincidence. And, I tell you, it was a hell of a lot worse back then. She was trying to _kill_ me, Aimo, kill me for a long time. She was a right holy terror then and still is now. I don't understand what goes through her head, but it ain't natural, like."

"Can't explain it." Aimo pulled himself up onto the Horus' large, front mudguard. "Maybe you got under her skin?"

"Daft." I waved a finger at Aimo as he dropped inside the open turret.

"Sausages."

The word came from Gale's mouth, not Aimo's. Depositing a fresh Zeke from upstairs down on the ground beside the covered bodies, Gale rubbed his twinging spine when he straightened up.

I strolled over, paying a cursory glance to the blood-covered Zeke at Gale's feet. "Wha' 'bout sausages?"

Gale gave me a disturbed, hollow look. "Not that kind."

"How many Zeke upstairs?"

"Eight. They all look like someone's hacked 'em up with a cleaver. Something you'd find in a slaughterhouse." Gale looked queasy. It appeared he had already thrown up somewhere along the line. "Tell me that wasn't you."

"The stickie cleared upstairs… with a knife."

"Phew, good." Gale looked at me wide-eyed. "I'd have Corta put you under arms the moment you got back if you had done that."

"Bloody savage."

"Yeah. Goddamn bloody xenos savages." Gale made the sign of the aquila hurriedly, glancing up at the sky. "Wanted to apologise for earlier too, just didn't want to in front of the stickie. We're indebted to you, Larn, for finding this MT for us."

"Ta. I'll give you a hand with the rest."

"No-no. I've got this. Uh, any extra weapons or ammo we find, we'll stick in the back of the track."

"Number one. Scran or meds too."

"Yuh-huh."

* * *

Ral looked up when I came into the bunkroom. "These bloodstains..." he began before the icy glare I shot Ral with when I sat down on a bunk made him drop the subject immediately.

"I'll go see if Gale needs a hand." Ral slung his repacked Unit One bag and left.

With my back to Izuru I worked a rag over the body of my KA, wiping off any muck its previous owner had not bothered to clean away. Admiring how such relics could take a beating, I heard a soft clink of rounds against one another and turned to see Izuru holding the Moses. She performed an awkward motion by placing her thumb inside the trigger guard and her fingers in front of the muzzle, slowly easing back the slide to see inside the chamber.

"You still holding onto that?" I went round to the bunk Izuru was lying on and leant on the top frame. "Fine, you do what you want," I said when she withheld a reply.

Raising an eyebrow, Izuru popped the Moses' magazine out along with the chambered round. She then proceeded to disassemble the pistol, managing to do so without taking her eyes off me. "Why do you hate officers?" she asked softly, taking a cloth to the neatly-arranged pieces.

Sifting through a bundle of officer's webbing I slapped at the bunk frame. "Because of the class. It's not the men. I've known good officers, so I have. My Mister Corta, he's not a bad subaltern, that's the truth."

"But what made you hate them as a class?" Izuru shifted from her reclining position, planting both feet on the floor.

Carrying the gear with me, I sat down on the adjacent bunk and thought back to Nemtess. My knee began to jiggle, the muscle spasm coming on quickly. "Because he killed my platoon," I said weakly.

"Who?"

"Upper-class noble called Max Kaukasios. Now if you ever hear me call someone a Kaukasios, you understand it means I want 'em wasted. Fragged, like." I felt my jaw tighten. Inside my boots my toes curled. "Kaukasios, our company commander on Nemtess, hated our platoon sarn't, a good fella named Scherder. This feud extended to me and the rest of the platoon." Balling my fists, I scrunched the cargo pockets on my trousers. "Kaukasios had a yellow streak, a nasty one. But he weren't a silly coward, he was a dangerous one. Upper-class knob left our platoon behind during a general retreat, hoping we'd get overrun. He'd get the Star of Terra for leading a counterattack he weren't even there for. Another good officer, Paul Meinerz, led the counterattack against Zeke. I know. I was there. He left me the Moses."

Reassembling the Moses, listening intently all the while, Izuru leant forwards. "You said he killed them all. Whom do you speak of?"

"Kaukasios. Bloody Kaukasios," I almost snarled the name, "ordered a commissar he had in his pocket to open fire on us by accident. We lost everyone there 'cept me, Scherder, and Martti."

Saying Martti's name bit deeply, reawakening the old guilt. "Commissars too. All commissars can burn."

"And Kaukasios?"

"Don't know." I looked away, near-choking over the memories of Nemtess. "He weren't on the ships out of Nemtess so I guess he never left. Good. May he die unremembered over and over again. Preening _bastard_."

With sadness almost on the verge of tears, Izuru handed the Moses to me. "Here is to Paul Meinerz, a good officer."

"Emperor carry his soul. May it rest in the fields where the stars of terra grow." My fingers closed over the grips, taking the pistol and placing it in my lap. Looking down at my feet I sniffed, realising my eyes had grown wet.

"May your comrades' souls be at peace," Izuru said softly. Leaning closer she pointed at my heart. "They live on in there now. Never forget."

"Same with you." I nodded gratefully. A weight had been lifted from my heart now that I had spoken a little about Nemesis Tessera. The pain was still there, but talking about it openly had helped.

"Show me your hands," Izuru spoke in a low voice.

Ral barging in interrupted her. He carried a bundle of combats in his arms.

"What you got for us, Ral?" I asked innocently, shifting away from Izuru.

"Combats. These were all I could find that were big enough, James."

"Uh, right-ho." I took the unfolded clothing from Ral and passed them to Izuru. "Spare kit here, Sniper. Get yourself fitted. We're moving, most ricky-tick."

"…Very well." Izuru sniffed at the combats suspiciously.

"That stuff's LP gear – Lizard Pattern – shouldn't be too much on the big side." Ral dragged a zip-up combat vest from off one of the top bunks. "Mind the blood on this one."

"Leave you to it. Don't take too long," I said flatly, searching around for my Castra. "Where's my…?"

Izuru picked up the grenade launcher from behind where she was sitting and handed it to me, popping out the loaded cartridge beforehand.

"Thank you." I made to take the chunky shell. Izuru instead slid it neatly into the nylon pocket on the breast of my flak jacket.

"Yep, obliged," I muttered, working the slung Castra around to my back.

"Stay."

"Nothing doing." I flipped my cover over in my hands and resettled it on my head.

"Wear this, I beg." Izuru tossed the upper half of her sniper oversuit to me.

Catching it I sniffed the faded material. It had become so mucky it was difficult to tell what colour it had been before. "Stinks."

"Humans stink. How do you think I smell after falling in with a company of them?"

"Nothing doing, Sniper."

"Wear it so I may recognise you and your companions in a crowd."

Holding the garment at arm's length I took in the size. For a taller, broad-chested being it would be well-fitting. On a thin, scrawny grunt it looked closer to a smock than than a shirt. The only benefit I could see over my worn OG jacket was the addition of a draw-string hood.

"Fine." I took off my body armour and hastily replaced my OGs with the sniper smock. "Happy?" I asked, zipping my flak jacket back up. Jabbing a finger at Izuru, who was waiting for me to leave, I added, a little more forcefully than I intended. "Get changed. You're on your own time now."

Standing around staring at the dozen Zekes lying in front of them, Aimo, Ral, and Gale looked grim. Ral replied to my questioning look when I stepped out of the building. "Zeke'll find these men."

"So?" Why was it that they were no longer confirmed kills to Ral but real people?

"We're worried about reprisals on Imperial soldiers," Gale said dourly. "Zeke won't take it well when he finds his recce team mutilated and left out in the open like this."

"Well what about those two lads in the Wolf back up the road? Mister Corta and Perandis wouldn't' let us see them. So maybe Zeke's already getting' started with reprisals. I don't think they see us as 'Imperial soldiers' rather extra fodder, or bayonet practice." I pointed out.

"Yeah. Yeah, he's got a point." Aimo nodded. "But I reckon we've got to bury them."

"Number ten. We're not wasting any more time hanging around 'ere. Look, dawn's right about now. We're gonna miss the company if we don't leave now."

"Larn, we're motorised, they're not. We can give 'em another half hour whilst we bury these men," Ral said patiently. "It's the right thing to do."

"Right thing to do would be to arrest the stickie and make her dig the grave." Gale kicked a Zeke in the ankle, adding in a low tone, "have her dig one more for herself."

Aimo glanced at me as if expecting a violent outburst. I remained composed and never turned an eyebrow to Gale's proposed idea. "We all dig."

"Fair enough," Gale agreed.

"Won't take long," Ral said optimistically.

"We'll load 'em in the track and drive it down the highway a bit first. Aimo?"

"Yeah." Aimo climbed into the cab and started the engine. Gale's eyes strayed northwards. The empty road worried him. It worried me too. Not knowing where Zeke was or how aggressive his offensive towards Kasr Jark would be. I almost welcomed a sighting of Zeke to alleviate the paranoia of the unseen menace.

Aimo halted the noisy half-track and we dismounted a rough hundred yards down from the outpost, striking out across the flat fields. Built across a natural bottleneck, the outpost was flanked on both sides by a prominent ridgeline that commanded an unobstructed view of the Cadian plains. It was in full view of the ridge that Gale, Ral, Aimo, and I commenced burial detail. With picks and shovels taken from the half-track we toiled at the earth, trying not to look behind us at the thickly-wooded high ground where our imaginations had conjured up tides blood-crazed Zekes just waiting to be let off their leashes and fall upon us in a fury of sharpened bayonets.

"Smartly now, lads." I rammed the blade of my shovel into the earth and angled my back sharply, rubbing where it ached. "If we don't look at Zeke, Zeke won't look at us."

 _I'm talking like a sergeant_ , I realised too late. Aside from Ral, I was outranked by both Aimo and Gale, a fact that Gale, by his expression, knew all too well. He said nothing though. Aimo too seemed content with acting subordinate to me despite his difference in rank.

Spitting on his palms and rubbing them, Aimo grinned.

"That stickie couldn't be bothered to clean up after herself then?" Gale surveyed his reddened hands where the pick handle had chafed. "Two thirds of this mess is hers."

"Ask not the Eldar a question…" Ral, sweating profusely, muttered.

"Get shovelling." Aimo stamped down on his buried shovel blade.

A loosening bootlace caught my attention. Kneeling down I felt a shadow fall across me. The thrown shovel landed neatly in the earth beside me, skimming across it and coming to a stop, touching the toe of my boot. Gale's reaction was expected, a single grunt of disgust at the stickie's sudden appearance. Ral nodded politely and got on with the job at hand. Aimo, leaning on his spade, looked on in approval. Retying my bootlace around my leg I looked up, not recognising the oddly-dressed newcomer. Only when I looked again did I see Izuru.

Startled by her change in attire, it gave me genuine pause. Izuru was no longer bedraggled, sickly, and dressed in the tattered remains of her ranger garb. She had shed it all in favour of the camouflaged battledress and olive grey assault vest. Two armoured pauldrons the same colour as her vest widened her, already broad, shoulders. A cap with earflaps and a set of dust goggles covered her head, similar to the headgear she had worn before. Beneath the wide peak, her eyes, both of which were now open, regarded us sternly. The deformity in her right eye, the dilated pupil, was prominent.

"Okay, make some room now." I picked up the shovel at my feet and offered it to Izuru who took it without so much as a nod of acknowledgment.

Sun-up was approaching by the time the hole had been dug deep enough and the sides levelled. Gale and Ral went back to the half-track to fetch the first bodies to deposit in the grave, leaving Aimo and I with Izuru. The pair of us were breathing heavily and aching from the constant digging. Izuru was not in the least bit fazed or even moderately out of breath.

"Where is the cameleoline, the long rifle, and the songs that accompany them?" Izuru mimed snatching something out of thin air, giving me a start. I had assumed she would keep her silence in the company of others. Aimo though was listening with interest.

"Alas. What is lost is now forgotten." Izuru's prideful gaze, yearning for her past, centred on me.

"This don't concern you. You don't have to do this," I said.

"I like you get your hands dirty," Aimo said. "Better than most officers I've known."

An unnaturally fierce expression directed towards him made Aimo fall silent.

"I shall not be commanded by you, human. I answer to none."

Izuru's strange coldness struck me as odd. Her warm and friendly manner in the bunkroom was gone and apparently forgotten. Was this the officer in her speaking?

The transfer of the Zeke dead went smoothly. Ral and Gale carried a single Zeke between them, with Aimo and I doing likewise. Working alone, Izuru carried two bodies at a time, taking the weight of the heaviest corpses with ease.

Nobody spared any words for the dozen once they were buried, all of us having had enough of Zeke. Grumbling under his breath, Gale passed the dirtied picks and shovels through the rear door of the half-track for me to stow in the containers underneath the seats. Then, abruptly, he slunk away, his place being taken by Izuru.

Stowing the tools I ignored Izuru as Aimo was waiting in the driver's seat for us to fetch the other vehicles. Only when I made to climb out of the half-track did she lay a hand on the inner edge of the open door, barring my way.

"If my lot sees you, they'll shoot you." I glared. "You can't come with us."

"Then they will not see me," Izuru replied indifferently, refusing to budge.

"I need your eyes. Watch for Zeke and keep us informed if he uses this road."

"You shall not command me."

"Listen," I lowered my voice. Aimo was watching us in the mirror. "If you're gonna find Keladi then you're gonna need to co-operate with me; none of this stickie officer bollocks. Take your sniper rifle and observe. That's what Rangers do, isn't it?" Reaching out I touched Izuru's arm. "Please. Please. I don't want anyone else taking on any more real estate here."

Understanding, Izuru's severe expression softened. "I shall be your eyes."

"Right. You ride with us until you find a place to debus. From then on, you're on your own. We're off back to the company now, then Kasr Jark. That's where our battalion headquarters is. Make sense?"

Izuru stepped back, allowing me to climb out of the half-track. "Be safe," she whispered.

"Can't guarantee that," I replied nervously.

"Then be vigilant."

"Number one. I'll do my best to bring the Tabor's through alright. They're safe with the company."

"You have my gratitude, soldier." Izuru bowed her head sadly.

"Yeah, take care, Sniper."

* * *

Gale waved urgently at me as I ran back inside the compound and over to the MT.

"Zeke?" I stopped and listened.

"No. Growling, like dogs or wolves," Gale, unusually flustered, replied.

"Where?"

"Listen."

"Nah, can't hear anything," I said after a beat of silence.

"I'm telling you…"

"Number ten. Let's get moving now." I didn't want to wait around for whatever it was Gale had heard to show up. "Sarn't, get in that bloody car!"

Under Gale's hand the Horus crunched through gears, rolling forwards at a painfully slow pace. Gaining ground on him in the Zik, I was forced to stop and wait for Gale several times before he found a gear that didn't disagree with him. I was conscious too much dithering had occurred as the sun was up and rising steadily. The threat of air attack would grow greater and greater the longer we lingered out on the open highway. I had no wish to fall into the sights of those diving bombers that had laid further waste to Rakka. I imagined the silent sky before hearing the growing whine in the distance, and the appearance of the black specks, each of them bearing their respective cylinders of death, ready to hit freefall.

Thank the Emperor that we were not harassed during the journey south. Indeed our progress was not marred in the slightest by the ongoing invasion which, for the morning, appeared to have been halted, with not a peep from Zeke. At the head of our tiny convoy I kept the Zik on a dead straight heading without bothering to stay on one side of the road. Behind me, Aimo and Gale were of a similar mind. Why would anyone be travelling north in the direction of the enemy?

 _The southbound road was chock-full of refugees before. Now where are they?_ I craned my neck to see through the gaps in the thin hedgerow that ran along both sides of the highway. More barren fields with little grass growing in them, probably minefields. The Cadians seemed to love sowing them without marking the areas of danger.

At the sight of the rattling half-track braking behind me, I eased off the throttle and came to a halt. Eyeing the left-hand mirror I saw a shape bearing a rifle vault over the side of the half-track. A camouflaged cape billowed behind as it slipped through the hedgerow and out of sight. Paying no further thought to the stickie, I released the brake and shot forwards, monitoring the half-track and armoured car as they worked to regain speed.

A little further on, the war resumed with a sorry display of refugees traipsing along the road. The beginnings of the aftermath of a bombing raid were apparent by the occasional crater and wrecked vehicle that had been pushed to one side by a heavier car. Heaps of tree branches, boughs, and leaves were scattered about the asphalt, baggage too. Belongings the fleeing refugees longer had the strength to carry.

The thin crowd parted ways before the Zik, paying no attention to me as I drove through the middle of them. Their odd lack of energy came clear. They were mostly elderly with only a handful of younger civilians that were too weak or ill to move quickly. The abandonment of the old and the sick struck a grim chord.

 _Keep moving, Aimo, you too, Gale,_ I fretted, praying that neither men would stop and offer rides to the flagging civvies.

No sooner had the thought passed through my head when Aimo stopped the half-track, forcing Gale to stop behind him in the midst of the refugees.

 _Damnation._ I pulled up and twisted around in my seat. Ral was standing up inside the passenger compartment and gesturing to the civvies.

 _Keep moving_. I waved to Aimo exasperatedly.

Through the driver's vision slit, Aimo shook his head firmly. _We're going to help these people_.

"Ral!" I shouted, hauling the Zik around and driving up alongside the half-track.

"Listen, we're not the enemy. We're Imperial soldiers." Ral cried, attracting the attention of the civilians. If they had thought we were Zeke before, that belief was gone now Ral was shooting his mouth off.

"Ral, what you doing, you stupid twat?" I batted at refugees as they began to crowd the Zik and half-track.

"Just a minute, we can help these people first."

"We're not even gonna get a quarter of these civvies in the track – get off!" I pushed away hands which were scrabbling at the Vraks. "Aimo, drive the track. We're getting overrun 'ere."

"Have pity on us," an elderly man begged.

"Let us aboard, in the name of the Emperor." An equally frail woman wailed. "I do not want to die tainted by Chaos."

"Get—" My fingers tugged at the flap of the holster attached to the Zeke officer's belt I had stowed the Moses in. Drawing the pistol I pointed it at the sky and let off a shot. The loud _clap_ made the refugees harassing us recoil in terror, giving me an opening to point the Zik south and gun the engine, breaking free of the cordon. Seeing me roar ahead, Aimo followed, allowing Gale to pull away. Ral remained standing up inside the half-track. Still determined to help, he threw water containers and ratpacks to the refugees he felt he was betraying. Seeing him throw away our food in the mirror I spat, "you bloody fool," but was powerless to stop him.

I made a point of keeping a constant speed on the road, never slowing for human traffic if it was in the way and sounding the Zik's horn whenever anyone was too slow to clear our path.

As the crowds grew larger, so did the amount of battlefield wastage. Artillery parks, formerly occupied but now deserted, were left with immense gardens of spent shells that children were playing on. A few live rounds, faulty ammunition, were left lying in the mud, completely accessible to anyone. Bombing victims, entirely motor transport, grew in number. Many of them, if not wrecks, were parked at the roadside, their fuel tanks likely empty and now acting as makeshift shelters for the refugees. Black columns of smoke rose in the distance. The smell of defeat hung in the air.

Not a single man in uniform walked amongst the refugees whose numbers were thickening the further south we moved, slowing our Zeke transport to a little over walking pace. The absence of any friendly forces was disconcerting. I hoped a general retreat was not in effect as I did not want another repeat of Nemesis Tessera; a disorganised withdrawal ending with our backs to a wall. Had the Cadians thrown the towel in already and were preparing to seal themselves inside their fortress-cities, subjecting themselves to a prolonged grind of a siege?

Men, women, and children were among those struggling to stay ahead of Zeke now. Families unwilling to leave one another behind walked alongside the Zik. One young child, trying to climb inside the side-car, was reprimanded shrilly by her mother who picked her daughter up in her arms and bundled her away, seemingly frightened of the sudden military presence on the road. Angling my mirror I noted, with dismay, a few opportunistic civilians had latched onto the Horus and were climbing onboard to sit on the flanks. Gale, with only the narrow driver's hatch to see out of, could see nothing but directly in front and even then his field of view was somewhat narrow. Ral, again, was overflowing with compassion for the heaving throng of displaced civilians, passing down bottles of water and entire boxes of compo.I worried Ral would soon leave nothing for us, or the rest of the company when we caught up. I remembered from the previous day that not a man among C-for-Cannon carried ratpacks, only his weapon and whatever ammunition he still had on him from the siege.

Growing impatient with an odd lack of progress which had left us standstill for more than a few minutes, I stood up on the Zik and tried to see what was holding the crowds up. An upcoming bridge was forcing the civilians to move closer and closer together, slowing them down and bringing us to a dead halt. I slumped in my seat, furious at the presence of the refugees hampering our withdrawal. A far-flung idea of firing a burst from the Vraks above their heads I swiftly banished when I caught a glimpse of the waterway. As ever with each and every piece of their architecture, the Cadians had erected defences on or around the structure, here being thickly-coiled concertina wire that ran all the way along the top of the bank, barring off the canal; leaving the bridge the only means of access to the south.

"I know." Ral was there at my shoulder. He had been handing out smaller individual ratpacks to families with children.

"You left some scran for us?" I took the Zik out of gear and switched off the ignition. Nobody was moving.

"Yeah. I was surprised how well-stocked those Zekes were. Vehicles intact, full tanks, and loads of ammo. They've got better stuff than we have."

"Hunh, well you know low we are on the food-chain. Cadians get the everything brand-new. We're lucky if we can swipe buckshee or steal second-hand." My knee began to jiggle. Expecting Ral to have words with me about the refugees we refused to help, I waited to hear his words spoken in a quietly scornful tone. Conveniently a scuffle broke out between a family Ral had provided for and a group of men, one of whom had taken a water bottle from them, distracting Ral who went over to intervene, forcibly retrieving the water and returning it. Similar such incidents were occurring nearby with gangs of younger men taking the provisions away from families to keep for themselves. All of that would go to waste now. _Thanks, Ral_ , I thought, still sitting astride the Zik.

With only the sun's position in the sky giving any indication of what the time was, I restarted the Zik and crept forwards with the crowds, reaching the ramp that led onto the bridge with the others close behind. _We're sitting ducks up here_ , I noted with worry. My apprehension was felt by many of the refugees too who kept looking at the road behind for signs of Zeke. I had little cause to fear Zeke catching up by road for he would announce his presence long before visual contact was made.

Ral returned. "What was I saying?"

"Never mind. Can you get through these crowds and see what's on the other side of the bridge? We're static here right now."

"Okay, hang on." Instead of moving ahead Ral turned back to the half-track.

"Don't hand out any more compo to these civvies. It's only gonna get stolen when we're out of sight."

Ral glanced around and leant closer for the bike's engine to mask his words. "Can't we at least try and make it look like we care, James?"

"No. I don't care about these people. I care about you, Ral, and Aimo, and Gale, and all the rest of our mob. These 'fugees ain't got a chance."

"We're betraying them if we don't offer aid."

"Tough. All we can do is bring our own people through. No-one else matters."

"Well we—"

"Besides, you 'aven't got any meds. You're outta medical supplies, aren't you? And you can't solve all their problems with ratpacks and a bit of water."

Disgusted, Ral barged through the refugees in front of the Zik without a backwards glance. I understood the medic wanted to offer aid to each and every person. His heart was in it. He had good intentions but he had neither the tools nor the personnel to put them into practice. Tutting to myself I glared at a refugee who had stopped to lean, if only momentarily, on the Zik's sidecar.

* * *

Ral was not angry at Larn; he was angry – furious – at himself at not being able to help any of the civilians out. The cold eyes so many were giving him as he strove to move quickly through the crowds packed on the bridge only made him feel more useless. Taking away his meds and dumping him in the midst of a heaving swell of ragged, tired, fed-up, and in some cases wounded, refugees was a nightmare made real. Even overt kindness on his behalf directed towards a mother carrying a child in a blood-stained blanket was sharply rejected. The mother took one look at the offered field dressing and turned away clutching her child closer as if afraid Ral would take it from her. Baleful stares directed at Ral were averted when he looked in their direction. No-one wanted to look him in the eye in case it attracted his attention. As it stood, nobody even wanted his help anyway.

Managing to reach the downward slope of the bridge, Ral stood on tiptoes to see over heads. Men in uniforms were visible behind barricades – a combination of sandbags, concrete blocks and wire grouped on or around the end of the long ramp. _At last, friendly faces!_ Ral sighed in relief. Though the soldiers were not in olive grey or even Cadian khaki, they did appear to be in considerable strength and were manning emplacements along the bank. Behind the checkpoint was a compound comprised of three warehouses and surrounded by a tall wall topped with barbed wire. An even larger force was bivouacked in the open space there. They had vehicles too.

The first soldiers Ral approached were watching the passing civilians from behind an Aegis Defence Line that was broadened by sandbags and given a thin screen of barbed-wire to deter any surprise attackers from clambering over. An identical structure had been positioned on the opposite side the road at a slight angle to funnel the crowd into a narrower, more manageable line. Two weapons teams surrounded by sandbags were standing vigil, the barrels of their water-cooled stubbers trained in the refugees' direction.

They were a regiment of colour, dark-skinned and pale-eyed, wearing grey-blue greatcoats and sack-covered, coal-scuttle helmets, at first appearing to Ral as outdated and foppish. The two-piece Cadian body armour they wore, normally green, was painted to match their uniforms. Brown leather belts and ammunition pouches, similarly archaic, bulged from the power packs for their lasguns which were an ornate, also outdated type.

Observing Ral approaching, one of the dark-skinned soldiers, his lasgun pointed into the sky, brought it down to the fire-ready position, assuming Ral meant trouble. "State your unit and purpose," he barked. "Or step away from the barricade."

Previously slinging his .338 so as not the give the wrong impression to the suspicious soldiers. Ral said, "I'm Ral Bleak, I'm a medic in Cannon Company out of Firebase Rakkassan. We were overrun by Zeke yesterday. We're retreating to our battalion headquarters in Kasr Jark. I have three vehicles crossing the bridge right now. Just be aware that they're friendly. Zeke isn't anywhere near."

Having listened to Ral's story, the stone-faced soldier stepped back and was replaced by another man who ordered Ral to step back from the line. _Did he hear all that?_ Ral realised he was coming under the not-quite-as-yet hostile gazes of most of the dark-skinned soldiers in grey and began to feel awkward when none of them said a word to him.

Ral was waiting a good ten minutes before he was ordered to cross the barricade. "You. Round here." A non-com wearing a grey cap with a leather peak pointed at Ral. "Make sharp."

Admitted into a sandbagged affair with a wooden roof, Ral stooped underneath a doorway and found himself inside a command post staffed by more of the soldiers in grey. Assumed it was the permanent CP for the unit manning the roadblock at first, it quickly became clear that they were packing up and preparing to move.

"You. Present yourself to the officer." The non-com clasped his hands behind his back and glared at Ral.

Unsure who he was supposed to present himself to – the uniforms looked too similar to one another – Ral stepped up to a table where another man in a soft, peaked cap was bending over a map and studying it closely. "Sir, I'm—"

"Preciously late," the officer, a woman, said. Looking up from the map she continued, her tone mildly derisive, "we assumed no other Imperial unit was on the north side of the canal. That is until your officer sent word to us that a few of his men were still to cross."

Caught off guard by the scathing look the officer gave him, Ral replied, "yes, sir, uh, ma-am."

"And your officer's name?"

"Corta, ma-am. Mister – Lieutenant Corta, I mean."

"Was it just you, or are there more? We have a damnable task of destroying this bridge. It would be most unfortunate if you were on it."

"No, ma-am, I've got three vehicles crossing right now. They're Zeke MT. We stole 'em."

The officer drew a finger in a circle on the map. "Show me where you took them from."

Ral pointed at the square shape of the outpost on the road. "Here, ma-am."

"And what is their strength?"

"Uh, zero, ma-am."

The officer's large hazel eyes flicked up. "Explain."

"We ambushed a Zeke recce unit: fifteen troops, one motorcycle combination, a half-track, and a scout car. We got 'em all. They were the only Zekes we saw. As far as we know, there's nothing between us and that outpost. About er…"

The officer tapped a gloved finger on the map. "Forty-eight klicks," she said, adding, "mostly dead ground. What were your casualties?"

"None, ma-am."

The officer's gaze never faltered. "What unit did you say you were again?"

"C-for-Cannon, ma-am. We're sort of a… disciplinary outfit."

"Disciplinary outfit?"

"Beg pardon, ma-am." The non-com spoke. "Individual companies like that do exist. They are usually the last company in each battalion's T/O, comprised of malingerers and ne'er-do-wells. Individuals unsuited to serve in a teeth formation."

"Thank you, sergeant," the officer nodded. Giving Ral her attention again she said, "I do not believe you, private."

"Uh, ma-am, I'm telling the truth," Ral gabbled.

"Tags." The sergeant held out his hand.

Keeping his mouth shut lest an insubordinate remark surfaced, Ral gave up his ID tags.

"Name, rank, and number, Private."

"Right, I'm Ral Bleak. I'm a private and a medic in C-for-Cannon. My number's 29849464, blood type A-positive, mother Allie," Ral reeled off the information in quick succession, apparently satisfying both officer and sergeant, the latter quickly handing the two taped disks back.

"Very well, Private Bleak. I am Lieutenant Leesha D'ambrosia. This is Pioneer-Sergeant Aile Levauz. As you have heard we are tasked with destroying this bridge."

"Yes, ma-am. Um, when were you planning to carry out that order?" Ral, perturbed at the notion that the bridge was to be demolished, wondered why neither mentioned the very obvious number of refugees still crossing.

"Once the last Imperial unit has crossed. Does that not conform to your timetable, private?" Lieutenant D'ambrosia folded her arms.

"There's civilians. Thousands of them still on there. And more to come too," Ral said quietly.

"Yes, well, we have our orders. I have it on good authority that the vast majority have already made the crossing and are safely within the walls of Kasr Jark."

"Aren't we supposed to protect the civilians, ma-am?"

D'ambrosia brushed the question off. "We've waited long enough – longer than we should have. We are due back in Kasr Jark by noon and I intend to keep to our timetable. If that is all, private, you are dismissed."

Snapping to attention, Ral left the sapper's CP and doubled down the road to the buildings where the other units were gathered. It did not take him long to locate Cannon even though scraps of many other units were also there. "Mister Corta, sir!" he called.

Seeing Ral, Corta got up from where he was sitting against the wall of one of the warehouses. "Ral?" Corta's brow furrowed at the sole showing. "Where are the rest?"

"Sir, they're blowing the bridge. You've gotta stop 'em." Ral panted. "There's people on there."

"Hullo, Ral." Kat, oddly unconcerned, came over and slapped Ral on the shoulder. "You find him?"

"Not now, Kat," Corta snapped. "Were you successful?" He began to lead Ral back up to the bridge.

"Yes, sir, yes we were. What did Kat and Cyrano tell you?"

"Uh, just that you had found Larn and were going to acquire some MT which I trust you did?"

"Yes, yes, sir, we got it all. No casualties. Lots of ammo and scran."

"Number one, Ral, good job." Corta sounded pleased. "Can you tell me what the MT is?"

"Please, sir, the bridge," Ral insisted. "Those—uh those blokes in grey…"

"Voynuk Siphanis, damn-odd name but they've got a good rep as first-rate soldiers and dedicated engineers. You spoke to Lieutenant D'ambrosia, I trust?"

"Yes, sir. She's dead-set on doing in the bridge regardless of the civvies."

"She gave me her word she would wait for you."

"Yeah, she's doing that, sir. I just want her to wait for the civvies."

"How far away is Zeke?"

"Bloody miles. Never saw a peep after we cleared the outpost. She told me she had orders though. Please speak to her, sir, make her reconsider. Blowing the bridge with civvies on is bloody murder."

Corta spoke, officer to officer, with the Siphani lieutenant inside the CP. "Are you aware I have men still crossing, lieutenant?"

D'ambrosia smiled. "Why yes, lieutenant, I was speaking with your medic and I assured him that only after the stragglers were across that I would carry out my orders."

Corta's eyes narrowed slightly. "Certainly, lieutenant, I respect that you have orders from your battalion commander and must carry them out within a certain time. But I am concerned for the welfare of the refugees. We have a reputation to uphold, let us keep it from shattering. After all we want the support of the civilians if we are to win. We can't have civil unrest whilst we are occupied with the invaders. It would look bad in the newspapers if a bridge was blown up with civilians on it. And it would certainly tarnish the reputation of such an esteemed unit as the Voynuk Siphanis. A scapegoat would be made…"

A subtle, but well-concealed rage was brewing inside D'ambrosia. She had kept herself composed and professional and was about to offer a cold yet polite response to Corta when a runner burst in.

"Private!" D'ambrosia barked at the unannounced entry.

"Ma-am." The runner stood to attention. "Air attack."

* * *

I did not hear the aero-engines over the noise the Zik was making, which was somewhat irritable on the ears even in idle. Others did, many of them craning their necks to look up into the sky. It slowly dawned what was about to happen when refugees next to and in front of the Zik, one by one, turned eyes upwards, expressions of fear and panic taking over as they realised they had nowhere to run or hide.

Remaining on the Zik, I shivered as I too felt the same fear of air attack return. _Where are they?_ I swallowed, my teeth chattering in alarm. Throat dry from nervousness that brought on goosebumps on my arms, I saw three miniscule specks break through a thin cloud bank high in the sky. As one body the refugees ducked, clutching children and babies tightly to breasts. Too jam-packed to throw themselves to the ground, or even to crouch properly they pressed in as much they could to one another, each person using the others around them as shields and vice-versa. Looking down I saw I was the only person on the bridge not huddled against someone else. What was more, I stood out on the Zik plainly, as did Aimo and Gale in their respective vehicles. Hearing the growing whine I pushed against the cowering refugees beside the Zik, wanting to dismount and take similar measures. Unable to budge even an inch, the people remained in place, either oblivious or in too fearful a state to grant me room to abandon the Zik. Terror, panic, pants-wetting fear, whichever was most suitable for the situation, I felt each and every one of them then as the howl of the gull-winged screamers grew louder and louder, drowning out the Zik, the half-track, and the Horus. Climbing over to the sidecar, I pulled the stock of the Vraks into my chest, tilting it down as far as it would go to allow me to fire up at the bombers. Maddeningly the Vraks would not elevate far enough to grant a good angle. It was not even close to getting a shot at the enemy. For the second time, we were all helpless.

Burrowing down in the sidecar I rested my chin on my chest and squeezed my eyes shut. Thoughts of others, some of whom were still with me, some of whom weren't crossed my mind. Then the daemonic shrieks ripped them all away, filling my ears with the terrifying wail. Individual whistles – bombs falling – preceded blasts, some watery, others – closer and more violent – ripping chunks of concrete from the sides of the bridge, spraying fragments into the air, and shaking the foundations beneath our feet. Screams as men, women, and children were picked up by the blasts, some eviscerated entirely, some catapulted into the air, falling back into the throng or down into the water below.

Roaring overhead, the bombers pulled out of their dive, quickly banking and lining on up the length of the bridge, strafing it with their guns; coming in one after the other. Three times the vicious fusillades raked the refugees, cruel stitches of blood and peppered clothing fragments, pinging off the armour plate of the Horus and half-track. Stunned at the merciless attack I removed my hands from my ears and watched the three aircraft fly away, having been completely unopposed.

Children cried loudly, some calling for their parents who had disappeared completely where the bombs had ripped craters in the road. Parents looked for their children, tearing at others who they believed had accidently smothered their offspring in the chaos. Slowly and with great weariness, the much reduced number of civilians got to their feet. Many gaps in the crowds were visible now, as were bodies, some completely still, others writhing about clasping at open wounds, plaintively stifling the weeping blood with dirt or their own torn clothing.

Slipping out of the sidecar I staggered through the bodies, pushing anyone standing in front of me out of the way. "Aimo?" I reached the half-track, seeing the peppering it had received. "Aimo?"

"Y'okay, James?" Shaken, Aimo reached across from the driver's seat and clasped my outstretched hand. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," I replied, in a similarly shaken manner, but glad Aimo was alright.

"Gale?"

"Gale."

"Nah, he'll be alright. That car's got good armour."

Gale was unhurt. The scout car however had taken damage to its engine and both rear tyres. This should not have been a problem, until Gale tried to start it. "US." He pronounced the Horus unserviceable after failing to start the engine and promptly abandoned it, climbing into the half-track to ride with Aimo.

Our supposed triumphant return with the Zeke transport was mired now that we had to do it in the midst of a bloodbath of civilians. I tried to remain stoic as I drove the Zik down the ramp and around the dead and dying. Now that the enemy had made it very clear what he intended do with soldier and civilian alike, the latter were not so unwelcoming of our presence. It took all my willpower to look straight ahead and not at the pleading, desperate hands silently begging us for aid as we rolled by. I was glad of Ral's absence. A sight like that would have caused him terrible distress. To be powerless in a dire situation and unable to help anyone; I was beginning to understand what it truly meant.


	30. Chapter 29

**Highway 2, Cadia Secundus**

At the sight of Lieutenant Corta and Ral emerging from a bunker at the roadside, I braked and came to a halt.

"You hurt?" Ral asked.

"Nah. All good, mate," I replied, resting on the handlebar. "Hello, Mister Corta."

"Looks like we can't keep you down, Larn," Corta said plainly. If he was angry he hid it well. "The company's just over there. Get yourself parked and I'll talk to you shortly."

"Aimo and Gale…?" Ral wrung his hands in agitation. "They alright?"

I pointed vaguely over my shoulder at the half-track.

"The scout car?"

"US," I grunted, releasing the Zik's brake and driving off towards the opening between the warehouses. In the mirror I glimpsed Corta leaning in to talk to Aimo and Gale. Numbed and a little deaf by the bombing I drove across the wide open space between the buildings, searching for C Company. Familiar faces wearing a mixture of surprised and relieved expressions waved and called to me. Cyrano was the first to detach himself from the preciously small group that was C-for-Cannon and stride over to me, beaming. "My boy," Cyrano clasped my forearm and shook it roughly. "You are safe!"

"You pull through okay then?" Kat, beside Cyrano, laughed. "Looks like it."

Others, seeing the motorcycle, came over to admire it. The cooks, a glowering Azar among them, gawked in amazement at my miraculous appearance. A slowly grinning Herle was scribbling on his notepad. Sitting apart from the C Company men, the Gellen Highlanders watched with mild curiosity, among them only Woulter and Peter showing any sign of relief. Woulter nodded at me in warm acknowledgment.

"Where d'you get this from then?" Draino asked.

"Whopper of a bike. Packing heat too." A grinning Belisha fingered the Vraks.

"Zeke," I replied coolly, switching off and dismounting.

"Aw look, he's bloused his boots as well, the scumbag." Belisha pointed at my Zeke footwear.

"Is that officer's web gear?" Kat tugged at the square binocular case protruding from underneath my flak jacket.

"Back, you lot." Cyrano opened his arms and swept the curious C-for-Cannon grunts away. "Give him some room. Poor lad's had a rough night."

"Alright, disperse now!" Staff Sergeant Perandis loomed, his presence enough to send the others away without a word. Pointing a finger at me threateningly he said, "you'd better have a bleedin' good explanation for this, Larn."

"Yes, Staff Sarn't."

"What's this, more Zeke MT?" Perandis' jaw dropped when the half-track clattered to a stop beside him. "Garst and Gale?"

Resting his forearm on the side of the open shutter, Aimo nodded at Perandis. "Mornin' Staff Sarn't."

"Find it by the roadside, did you?"

"Affirmative, Staff Sarn't." Aimo smiled mischievously.

"Right, you park up there. I'll be over with you shortly. _Don't_ go anywhere." Perandis stepped out of the way as Aimo revved the half-track and drove forwards in a tight circle, scattering onlookers when he reversed up against a wall.

"Quite a change, Larn," Perandis said evenly, looking first at my Zeke boots then at the camouflaged sleeves and hood of the smock protruding from the shoulders and collar of my flak jacket.

"Please, Staff Sarn't, I can explain," I said breathlessly.

"You will. Let's just wait for Mister Corta to join us first."

I followed Perandis' gaze and noticed Corta and Ral approaching through a gaggle of men from a different regiment, previously disturbed by the Zik and the half-track, that had returned to sitting and lying about in the opening between the buildings that led out onto the road.

"Staff Sarn't, Private. Over here please," Corta, dismissing Ral, beckoned to us and we followed him to a discreet corner tucked away underneath a roof with steel spikes mounted on top.

"Ten-shun!" Perandis rapped out the command and I automatically snapped to.

"Let's have it then, Larn." Corta said, face-to-face with me. "How did you escape the minefield?"

"It weren't live—" I mumbled, realising instantly how transparent that story was.

"W-what?" Corta shook his head, seemingly mis-hearing me.

Perandis' hands were clasped behind his back. His hard gaze was fixed on me. "Say again, Larn?"

"I—I cut through my boot and tied the sole to the mine, sir."

"Is that possible?" Bemused, Corta looked to Perandis for an answer.

"For certain types of mine, yes, it is SOP to employ such measures when faced with no other option. It explains Private Larn's change in footwear and uniform as well, sir."

"I did wonder." Corta looked down at my boots. In daylight the Zeke boots were plainly different from the regular Guard-issue marching boots, being a full inch-and-a-half taller and with an upper section of OG cotton. "I'll warrant you were desperate for footwear and had to resort to scrounging."

"Yes, sir."

"The jacket too. I trust your OG combats were in some way damaged or you would not have needed to discard it."

"Yes, sir," I lied. Corta did not mention the officer's binocular case and compass pouch I wore, for which I was thankful.

"Do want to explain how you came across two Zeke vehicles?"

"I dunno 'bout two, sir…"

"Toss the cheek, Larn, you're speaking to an officer," Perandis snapped.

"Three, sir, we bagged three."

"Yeah, never mind that." Corta held up a hand to stop me. "Just explain where you obtained them first then we can talk about numbers."

"From a Zeke recce unit, sir. Kat and Cyrano delivered a prisoner I took."

"Yes, he was sent back earlier. Now, this was with Ral, Garst, and Gale?"

"Yessir."

"Okay, show me on the map where." Corta unclipped a map case hanging from his shoulder and opened it out.

"Back up the road, sir. Some outpost."

Corta's finger hovered over a grey blot that the arrow-straight road bisected. "Here? I make it forty-five klicks from the bridge."

"Round about forty-eight klicks, sir," Perandis said with barely a glance. "We passed through there yesterday afternoon. It was deserted."

"And you say there was a Zeke recce unit occupying the structures when you passed through?" Corta asked me. "What time was that?"

"I don't know, sir, I don't have a time-keeping unit."

"And how many were there?"

"About just over a dozen Zekes, the Zik, that halftrack, and a scout car that's back on the bridge; we got 'em all."

"No casualties?"

"None, sir."

Perandis glanced up at me sharply. "Not sure we can disprove you there, Private, however far-fetched that story sounds. We'll correlate it with the others in short stead."

"Roger that, Sarn't," Corta agreed readily. "Unless Zeke willingly gave up his MT then I don't see why Larn would lie. He's done a good job. Now about that scout car…"

"US, sir. Them bombs did it in good and proper," I said quickly to Corta's displeasure.

"Okay, uhh, right, well…"

"Six-wheeler?" Perandis enquired. "Open or closed turret?"

"Um, closed—no open, Staff Sarn't." I tried to recall what type of weapon the Horus had mounted. "Some kind of autocannon, maybe a twenty-mil."

"Sir, permission to lead a party to recover ordnance from the scout car. We might need a twenty-mil if we get contact with Nathaniel."

"Permission granted, Sarn't. Actually, leave out getting the accounts from the other three men. We're busy enough as it is. I'll talk to the Siphanis and see about getting them to postpone the det."

"Right." Perandis eyed me with suspicion and strode off. He had not been entirely convinced.

"I shall take your word for it, Larn. I really want to believe that you are telling the truth. My gut tells me you are."

"Yes, sir."

"On our return to barracks I expect a full written report handed in to me or Staff Sergeant Perandis as soon as possible. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, sir."

"Show me this Zeke bike then." Corta indicated the parked Zik.

"Sir." I trailed after Corta who shooed away the cooks climbing all over the Zik.

"You know how to drive it?"

"Still getting the 'ang of it, sir."

"Right, good. You can be my runner then – dispatch rider even."

It was an unfortunate coincidence that Olen Azar happened to be standing nearby. Hearing Corta declare me as his new runner touched a nerve as he immediately blurted, "wha—I was Captain Meller's runner, sir!"

"Can you ride this motorcycle, Private Azar?" Corta said sternly.

"No, sir." Azar looked crestfallen. Could it be that he was on his way back to the kitchen now I had taken his place as runner?

"Then as you were. Sarn't Gale, Private Azar shall be resuming mess duties with you."

Gale acknowledged without expression. A slow look of hatred grew on Azar's face, directed at me. _Tough_ , I glared back.

Corta cornered me when the crowd dispersed. Speaking in a low voice Corta pressed something soft into my hand. "I am going against Captain Meller's wishes here in part. Were he here and still in command he would see you remain an OR and that would be that. But as I now command C-for-Cannon in the field I am going to return your stripes."

Opening my hand I looked at the three grey chevrons, the sight of them causing my world to tilt sideways. "I can't be a sarn't. I ain't the tough bloke," I breathed.

"Don't talk such drivel, putting yourself down helps no-one. You are an NCO now and make sure you remain one this time. As a runner you will be attached to company headquarters, tasked with delivering messages or orders if issues with signals arise."

"Number one, sir," I said in a little voice.

"What you did yesterday and today was nothing short of extraordinary. I am still debating whether to issue charges or put up recommendations."

"More important stuff goin' on, sir."

"You're right, sarn't. I need to talk to the Siphanis now. As you were."

Corta left, heading in the same direction as Perandis had. It left me at a loose end.

" _Oh, Molke_." I noticed Ral kneeling over a stretcher, the other medic opposite him. "How is he?" I asked, assuming the worst.

"Still out." Ral lifted the blanket covering Molke's face and looked underneath. "It's for the better."

"C'mon, Nails." I thought it a suitable nickname for one that had taken a close-range grenade blast. "Be strong."

"What you doing?" the other medic looked at me curiously when I clasped my hands together and knelt close to Molke.

I said nothing, inwardly praying for Molke's survival.

* * *

The refugees had recovered from the bombing with remarkable speed, resuming their journey south along the highway, clutching what little personal possessions they still retained. Corta had not noticed it before but the two-lane carriageway that had born the weight of so many feet and vehicles was heavily pockmarked, with many of the holes gouged in the asphalt filled with scummy water, catching the unaware when they trod in them; expecting solid ground instead.

With Wharton behind him Corta worked his way through the trudging mass of refugees. When not hidden behind scarves the bewildered faces spoke silent tales of horror endured on the road. Blank, soulless eyes refused to catch Corta's when he looked. Dourness had the civilians in its grip, refusing to let go.

Orders to look out for deserters, Cadians specifically had been passed onto Corta by the Siphanis. Since every Cadian citizen was either listed as on or off active duty it meant that anyone of military age could be called up to fight which was a foregone conclusion in the event of a full-scale invasion. The distinct violet-coloured eyes all Cadians had was an immediate giveaway. It was the first thing that Corta had been told to look out for. Arrest and detain, D'ambrosia had said, appearing strangely eager to see deserters in shackles, something that disturbed Corta. It was the briefest glimpse of a pair of exhausted eyes – violet – underneath a hood that had persuaded Corta not to convey the order to C-for-Cannon. Reddened by lack of sleep, blood vessels visible, and thick purple rings underneath them conveyed, better than anything said aloud, that the Cadian deserter had gone completely over the edge and was useless, mentally and physically. The pitiful display had made Corta look away in shame. He would ensure Cannon would find no deserters that day.

Ignoring the smattering of Cadians in plainclothes, Corta moved past them and across into the Siphani CP. "Lieutenant D'ambrosia." Corta nodded pleasantly at the Siphani officer, trying to keep a professional air about him.

"Lieutenant Corta." D'ambrosia, dismissing a subordinate, gave Corta her attention. "Are such bold intrusions a frequent affair with you?"

"They have their benefits, Lieutenant," Corta replied coolly. "Could I trouble you to delay your det? I have my staff sergeant recovering ordnance from an enemy scout car on the bridge."

With surprising dexterity D'ambrosia exchanged a pencil between individual fingers, listening to Corta, a half-smile playing at her lips. "How highly do you value your staff sergeant?"

"He's a first-rate NCO; knows his job inside and out."

"Likewise," D'ambrosia said. "We are well-served by skilled non-commissioned officers."

"…The bridge?" Corta's eyes flickered down to a bundle of cord attached to a detonator that was quite close to where D'ambrosia's idle hand was resting.

"That last bombing damaged the wires. We are still searching for the break."

Out of the corner of his eye, Corta saw Wharton, giving a very subtle sigh of relief, glance at him. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Seems like an alright enough officer," Wharton remarked when the two were back in the open air. "Never seen a woman in charge before. Not sure if I'd like her being in charge of me."

"Whatever comments you have about Lieutenant D'ambrosia, keep to yourself, Lance Corporal." Corta, his heart thumping at an unnatural pace, stuck a lit match inside an antique wooden pipe and began to smoke. It had been a struggle to maintain his composure inside the sweating CP. The Siphani officer was quite striking. Corta had never met a woman like her before. It was odd to see a mixed-gender unit as Corta had only ever seen the Cadians and a few other, foreign regiments practise it. He would need to keep Cannon at a good distance from the Voynuk Siphanis, and enforce such a rule harshly to maintain discipline.

"Fire up the vox. See if you can pick up anything."

Corta waited as Wharton fixed the man-portable set to his chest and fiddled with it.

"Well?"

Wharton, listening with one hand clamped over the headset shook his head. "Still nothing, sir. We—aah!" A shrill burst of noise, audible to Corta made Wharton jump and rip the headset off.

"They're jamming us, sir." Wharton, his eyes moist, rubbed his protesting ears. "We're in a right bugger now, aren't we?"

Leaning on a step behind the Aegis line, Corta folded his arms. Squinting at the general disorder of the civilian files he responded tersely to Wharton. "Whilst we have our arms, our ammunition, and each other, we're gonna give Zeke everything we've got."

"What if it's not enough? There's talk of Nathaniel units dropping from atmo, sir."

"Then we'll have to fight doubly hard, Wharton." Corta nodded at Perandis as the staff sergeant returned with the big autocannon carried over his and a flagging Weld's shoulders. The cooks, absent their kitchen duties, were now being used as riflemen, or for any jobs Perandis wanted doing. "All present and correct, Staff Sergeant?"

"Be back to pick up the ammo in a jiffy, sir." Perandis replied, wincing at the lead weight pressing down on him. "Just wish these bloody civvies would get out the way!"

Corta looked on in silent amusement at the wide berth the refugees now gave the two men bearing the seven-foot long weapon aloft. _Well done, those four_ , he thought in approval. Wharton attacked the vox again but gave up after a short spell. "White noise, sir. Some odd chanting too, ominous like."

"Leave it, Corporal."

"Okay, sir." Wharton slung his set across his back lazily and left.

 _Now what are you doing about this bridge?_ Corta thought about D'ambrosia, and the unenviable task her sappers had of demolishing the canal crossing whilst it was still in use. "Pardon me, Lieutenant. How goes your repair detail?"

D'ambrosia, the tiniest hint of anxiety in her expression, replied, "please, Lieutenant Corta, let me perform my task unimpeded. I am understrength and under orders to have this bridge rendered unusable to the enemy by…" D'ambrosia checked the chrono on her wrist. "Zero nine hundred, a deadline I shall not be able to keep at this rate."

Corta's mind raced. "Then allow my men to assist yours."

"Have your men trained with explosives?" D'ambrosia frowned.

"No but—" Corta trailed off mid-sentence. The CP went quiet as all inside listened to the first artillery shell tearing through the air and landing in the canal with a watery crash. "My company will act as security for your sappers. Zeke won't be far behind this artillery."

Outraged at being ordered to the northern end of the bridge without an explanation by Perandis, Aimo worked at the bank with his foldout shovel, cutting a firing position in the earth. With him were Belisha and Cyrano. Across the road the three Highlanders were likewise digging in and building up an earth barricade in front of their firing positions. Glancing down at his IM stubber sitting on its bipod legs, Aimo pondered on the order Corta had given him off-handedly. As a test of loyalty Corta had the Highlanders issued arms from the half-track and put on security detail for the Siphanis. Aimo's role there was a dual one. Keep a lookout for Zeke as well as the Highlanders if they decided to take their chances and make a break for it. Corta had authorised Aimo to open fire on the Highlanders if any one of them so much as took a tentative step to the north.

Tossing aside his shovel at the sound of a freight train tearing through the sky, Aimo crouched low in his hole, pressing his fingers in his ears as the resounding concussion of the nearby shell exploding jarred him.

"Getting a bit hairy out here, corp," Belisha cried, shaking loose earth from the brim of his helmet.

"Still got some 'fugees to cross yet, Elisha, we're not goin' anywhere yet." Aimo brushed dirt from his stubber and straightened out the kinks in the belt.

"Ammo. Here!" A Cannon grunt, scooting down from the bridge, tossed a gas mask satchel stuffed with .338-calibre belts down to Aimo.

"Cheer for that." Aimo flipped open the cover and sifted through the piles of brass. _Perfect_. "How are the sappers doing back there?"

"Dunno, corp." The ammunition carrier dropped Rekyl magazines with the Highlanders then took off back across the bridge, keeping low as he ran. Fantastical though it sounded, Aimo hoped that the Zeke guns – long-range howitzers – would render the bridge unserviceable for them, saving the sappers a painstaking job of finding the break in their det cord. So far though most of the artillery had fallen either in the canal or around the north end with the bridge itself suffering few direct hits and little damage to its structure; even less so than during the earlier bombing raid.

"Naw can't stand this." Belisha flinched terribly at the latest concussive shock from a nearby shell made him burrow his helmet further into the earth. "I'm going back." Making to rise, Belisha was caught in the belt by Aimo and held in place.

"Would you rather face shells or Zeke?" Cyrano, coldly dismissive of the incoming, plucked Belisha from Aimo's grasp and sat him back down.

"What was that back at Rakka then?" Aimo was beginning to see through Belisha's tough image that he projected. "You lose your balls on the march somewhere?"

Before Belisha could reply a Highlander lance corporal wearing a leather jerkin underneath his flak vest appeared, having strolled across the road without the slightest care of the danger. "You're not thinkin' o' scarpering, are ya?"

"He wasn't speaking for all of us," Aimo retorted, pointing at the cringing Belisha.

"Naw bet he wasn't." The Highlander, still on the road, squatted. He was not a particularly tall or well-built man but his overt disdain for enemy fire had an oddly calming effect on Aimo. That he went without protective headgear too, a floppy khaki beret instead of hard cover, instilled confidence in Aimo.

"Any o' you think o' turning tail, just remember you're within our Rekyl's field o' fire."

The Gellen lance was not lying as the Rekyl's distinct flared muzzle was resting on the sandbags bordering the Highlanders' firing position, half-pointed at Aimo.

Gobsmacked that the Highlanders were pulling the same trick as he was Aimo kept his irritation down, instead nodding in earnest. "Got it, corp. We're holding here til those sappers get the job done."

The Highlander stuck his hands in his pockets and slouched away, muttering, "aye, maybe you'll get to watch some real soldiers in action…"

"Prima donnas," Belisha hissed. "Daft hats."

"I beg your pardon." Mildly offended, Cyrano adjusted his shaggy fur hat that was sitting on his head in place of hard cover.

"Cyrano." Aimo tapped a balled fist against the side of his helmet, signalling Cyrano to switch out his soft cover. "I know it's got some ballistic protection. But it sticks out."

"Mmm," Cyrano grunted.

"The Highlanders aren't working for us. Let 'em wear what they please, long as they follow their orders. You two are."

Content to let his heavy guns chip away at the enemy, Zeke made no appearance as the break in the wire was found and mended and the last faltering stragglers were urged across the canal by the impatient Siphanis.

"Ten thirty-nine." Lieutenant Leesha D'ambrosia announced as she and Corta observed the bridge security scuttling across the span to the south bank after receiving their orders to pull back. "My superiors shall expect a full report on this incident. Why I have exceeded my deadline by one hour and forty minutes."

"Incident? Lieutenant, your sappers have performed a textbook bridge demolition, assessing, analysing, and ultimately solving the problem, all the while under enemy fire. I damn well hope you are commended for this action," Corta said gently. "Certainly for the minimising of civilian casualties too. This was no easy task."

"…Yes." D'ambrosia looked thoughtful. Taking the offered detonator from Sergeant Levauz she inserted the crank. "Present and accounted for, Sergeant?"

"Yes, ma-am, forty warm bodies, no casualties," Sergeant Levauz, standing behind her waiting, said.

"Lieutenant Corta, are your men all accounted for?" D'ambrosia wrapped the detonator wire around the chargers.

"…four, five, six." Corta counted the two three-man weapons teams passing by. "Highlanders, yeah. Cannon, yeah. We're all across, Lieutenant."

"Very well." D'ambrosia took cover behind the Aegis line. Corta, beside her, plugged his ears. Levauz pressed a single finger into one ear and tilted his head down.

"Standby!" D'ambrosia paused, flicked the safety off, and twisted the crank, ducking her head.

* * *

Valkyrie 229, one of a lift of nine slicks, saw the flash and the dirty cloud covering the remains of the canal crossing in smoke. The tips of the slicks' wings wavered as the very edges of the shockwave rolled over them, the sound mitigated by the reinforced canopy surrounding each pilot and co-pilot respectively. Inside the cockpit of 229, callsign Crow 5-7, WO Hugo Waldo and WO Arun Ovile watched the span slowly collapse, all but disappearing beneath the flotsam-covered canal.

"Negative contact on Zeke," Ovile muttered, scanning the wrecks strewn across Highway 2 for signs of the enemy's advance.

"He'll be along soon." Waldo replied in a monotone. Puffs of earth on the north side of the canal kicked up by falling shells betrayed Zeke's intentions. "He's testing the water."

Passing over the broken remains of the water crossing, Crow Group maintained a steady westerly heading. The slicks each bore a compliment of passengers, one twelve-man section; their maximum capacity. All nine in total carrying the 105 men of Support Company, 3rd Battalion, Cadian 9th Infantry Brigade to the frontlines at Kasr Stark. Support Company 3/9 was meeting their parent battalion and would have their equipment moved out to them in a second lift.

"Crow Five-Zero," Captain Karl Imress' voice sounded in each pilot's ear. "Crow Group, be aware, three bandits twenty-two klicks north. Maintain speed and heading. The escorts will deal with them. Over."

Glancing down at the fire control radar between his legs Waldo watched the three blips appear on the screen. He imagined the lift's escort, a section of Lightning Interceptors cruising two klicks above and a klick behind switching their radars from _search_ to _track_ in anticipation of peeling off and heading on an intercept vector. A lot of important information would be revealed by the radar lock: the aspect angle, heading, airspeed, and closure rate, giving the interceptor pilots a very clear idea of what the enemy aircraft were doing.

Waldo, as with every other pilot, gave two clicks on the comm, acknowledging the flight commander. _Goodbye, air cover_ , Waldo thought when the three friendly blips revised their heading and shot away into the murky cloud banks to the north. "Russ, how're our passengers?" Waldo asked, now on intercom.

Russ Reath, manning the starboard door gun, replied, "ah, it's a jungle back here. Can we have the ramp down? I'm worried one of these Cadians is gonna be sick all over my bulkhead."

"Nah. Oi, tell 'em I charge ten credits an hour. Twenty for refreshments," Waldo smirked behind his oxygen mask.

"You hiding something from us, Hugh?" Ori Hensen, over on the other door gun, asked. "Cause I want to know where you keep 'em."

"Alright, quieten it down now, lads. Keep 'em peeled," said Waldo. "Arun?"

"I'm monitoring the Lightnings, Hugh. They're keeping those bandits busy."

Grateful that even a pitiful excuse for a fighter escort had been scraped together, Waldo could not help but feel uneasy with the Lightnings absent. Down at five hundred feet he felt horribly exposed to both ground fire and fighter attack from above. With the latter though, his radar showed nothing but the departing Lightings, telling him that the sky was indeed clear. "Arun, leave the radar. I want you to comb the ground beneath our path. Watch for any hidden Six-One Kilos or VAK guns." Waldo could see the husks of vessels brought down from orbit scattered across the northern edges of the Elysion Fields. Some, life pod sized, were the merest specks. Others, closer to the size of city blocks, cast giant shadows across the fields. Great gashes in their hulls gave perfect cover and concealment to anti-aircraft and missile batteries. Call it paranoia, for Zeke had not yet reached the Elysion Fields, but Waldo still felt a tug of uncertainty at Zeke's whereabouts. He hoped Captain Imress was likewise worrying about, or at least noting the position of possible ambush sites on their flight path.

"Well, I'm keeping an eye out for bandits, Waldo. Zeke's not got past Stark yet so he's not gonna be down there."

"I know but I want you to keep eyes on both just in case. Better to be safe than sorry."

"Yeah, but does Imress think that too?"

Waldo did not know, and it was not the place of a mere WO to be advising the flight commander in the middle of an operation.

At 1100 exactly the lift changed their heading, turning south-west away from the foothills of the Korg Mountains, down towards the foreboding vista that was the western theatre of operations. Pillars of smoke rose from great swathes of the landscape that had been set ablaze by uninterrupted storms of shelling concentrated on the Cadian divisions dug in around Kasr Stark. The city's void shield had been bombarded into submission by night raids, opening up Stark for long-range missile attacks. Zeke had taken full advantage of the ensuing pandemonium by laying a barrage of super-heavy 420-millimetre rocket-assisted warheads, firing from over forty klicks away, inside the city limits. The tallest spires in Stark were the first to collapse, with other prominent monuments in subsequent follow-up strikes toppling over or falling in on themselves, spreading their remains across the city, crushing anything beneath them into dust.

"Zeke's been busy with Stark," Ovile said flatly.

"Aah, she's still standing. The Cadians won't let this one go without a proper scrap."

 _They had better bloody not. Stark gives them a clear run across Elysion to Kraf,_ Waldo thought with worry.

"Can you see the LZ? Where are we supposed to set down?" Ovile, in response to the worsening visibility due to the smoke, flipped down his helmet's heat-see shutters."

"Don't know yet, Arun, I'm following the others." Waldo watched the position of 5-8 and 5-6's wings carefully, making minute adjustments to his course to keep in formation with them.

"Crow Five-Seven, Five-Eight, you are in danger of enteringmy cockpit. Watch your dispersion." The pilot of Valkyrie 215, the ship to 5-7's port, had turned his head in Waldo's direction. "Understood, Five-Eight," Waldo said mechanically, gently depressing the left rudder pedal and positioning his slick a safer distance away from 215.

"Crow Five-Seven and Five-Eight. Five-Zero. Cease traffic. Over."

"Five-Seven. Wilco, Five-Zero." Waldo responded, not a little embarrassed at the reprimand.

Observing the slightly uneven formation behind him for a moment, Lieutenant Imress switched his comm to UHF and spoke to whom he hoped was the Cadian Forward Air Controller who was waiting to guide the lift in to land just outside the city. "FAC, Crow Five-Zero. We are on approach to Landing Zone Typhoon. Over."

A faint, scratchy voice came on in Imress's ear. "Crow Five-Zero, uh, roger. We have no visual at present. We can hear you though. Over."

"Understood, FAC. I have eyes on you. Pop smoke. It is the colour of envy. I say again, it is the colour of envy. Over"

After hearing the acknowledgment to his declaration, Imress switched to intercom and spoke to his crew chief. "Owyn, find all the red smoke grenades you can. Be prepared to drop them out of the side doors one at a time, just as fast as you can when I tell you. Pull the pins on a couple and hang onto them."

"Yes, sir." Inside the crowded troop bay, Imress' crew chief gathered up a handful of coloured smoke grenades and knelt ready beside the starboard door gunner.

"Standby." Imress saw the distant billow of smoke, bright white on his heat-see. Returning to eyeball, Imress scrutinised where he had seen the grenade discharging, hoping it was green like he had specified. _Drat this smoke_ , he swore, touching the slick's airbrakes to kill his velocity. Now a little on edge, Imress felt his sweaty back sticking to his seat. _Give me green like I asked, damn you._

A waft of purple smoke drifted into view, standing out clearly from the dark grey hue behind it.

"Crow Group. Crow Five-Zero. LZ Typhoon is overrun. Pull out now," Imress spoke calmly, opening his throttle and banking sharply to port. Primed smoke bombs fell from the side door, marking the LZ as dangerous. It was not a moment too soon either. Small-arms – slug and lasfire – zipped through the smoke, spattering along the belly of Imress's ship. From elsewhere came the slow, punctuating repetition of a VAK autocannon pumping 20-millimetre tracer up at the slicks. Even the near-misses banged loudly enough to be heard inside the sealed cockpit.

 _Thank the Emperor that wasn't a Six-One Kilo,_ Imress let out a sharp breath once the ship had shaken off the gunner's aim and was flying level. "Crow Group, Crow Five-Zero. Comm check."

The eight ships rattled off their callsigns with Imress once again offering silent thanks to the Emperor for their luck.

"Crow Five-Zero, Five-Six. I observe green smoke to my nine o'clock."

Imress rolled the slick on its axis to port. He too saw a thin plume of green smoke rising from inside the severed carcass of a Thunderhawk gunship that had become embedded in the staggered fortifications ringing the outskirts of Stark. "Crow Five-Zero. I have eyes on the smoke. I'll orbit for a look before we commit ourselves. Over."

Breaking away from the formation, Imress took up orbit around the Thunderhawk, rolling his ship to port again to give his doorgunner an angle on the troopers below if they turned out to be hostile. Surveying them with eyeball, Imress saw the bright khaki combats and white aquila on each man's helmet, both affects registering the men as Cadian Shock Troopers.

"Crow Group, Crow Five-Zero. Personnel below appear to be Cadians. Form up on my callsign and set your ships down." Tilting his yoke, Imress banked gently to starboard and hooked a finger around the little lever above his right knee that controlled the slick's VTOL capability. "Setting her down now," he said on intercom. "Give the Cadians a kick if they don't debus fast enough." Imress wanted to be away from the LZ and heading back to Kasr Jark within short order to get Support Company's equipment loaded and lifted out to them.

Green smoke was blasted out from underneath the slick's powerful jet turbines, Imress setting her down almost on top of the smoke marker and as close to the waiting Cadians as he could get without planting her in the trench. "Right, get 'em rolling, Chief."

"Okay, get outta here, you lot," Owyn shouted, forgetting how loud he was in Imress's ear.

"Everyone out?" Imress glanced to his right to see the other slicks disgorging their compliment of men.

"Yes, sir, I'm retracting the ramp."

 _Good-oh._ Imress looked on as Support Company, minus its man-packed weaponry, charged across the open ground and leapt down to where its compatriots waved and urged their fellow Cadians to join them.

"Crow Group, Crow Five-Zero pulling out." Imress checked his proximity sensors then soared upwards, the nose of his ship drooping. Following his departure, all Crow callsigns swiftly followed, reforming for the flight back to Jark.

 _Clockwork._ Imress allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Not a single one of his ships had been lost, nor had any of the pilots panicked when they had taken ground fire. _Such professionals, these men, a real pleasure to serve with,_ he thought. Of course he would never admit that to any of them lest they grow too big for their boots. A man should know his place, even a mere lieutenant like him. _We are but tiny cogs in a great whirring machine_. _Miniscule pieces to be set up and played by the Emperor's divine will._

* * *

 **Kasr Kraf**

The evenings came quickly in Kraf now, quickly enough to sate Osvat Radu Zeleska's growing impatience with the matter of the xenos and the AdMech. Now though, a full six days since his last visit to the Officio Medicae facility, Zeleska was returning there, and he was not alone.

In continuing defiance of the lord inquisitor's orders, Zeleska had remained on Cadia, finding his purpose once more. It was not just the stickie female that drove him, but the prospect of getting one up on the AdMech whom he viewed as – putting it in the politest terms – technology-hoarding sociopaths with a disturbing fixation on grafting bits of machine to their bodies. Perhaps he was right and all the other inquisitors who had varying arrays of implant sockets installed were wrong? Zeleska's views, and that of the Inquisition as a whole, were that mankind was superior. A prouder, nobler, purer race defending the galaxy that was rightfully theirs from the mutant, the heretic, and the xenos filth who sought only to dominate, murder, and enslave. Did so-called human purity include the acceptance of mechanical implants and appendages? Why was that considered right? By refusing to taint his flesh Zeleska surely was upholding the standard of racial purity within the Imperium. Uncertainty and smouldering rage caused by the embarrassing episode with the machine-thing that had called itself Belisarius Cawl gnawed at him, fuelling his hatred for the AdMech.

Seated within one of a pair of Taurox Prime transports, amongst the ten fully-armoured, helmeted, and masked Scions of the Militarum Tempestus, Zeleska brooded, rubbing his thumb up and down his clenched fist repeatedly. The sound-dampened interior was quiet. Only the softs clicks as scions checked weaponry broke the silence.

The intercom sounded. "We are approaching the target building, My Lord."

Glancing up, a harsh glare on his features, Zeleska drew his lowered hood over his head and adopted the breather mask. A pair of bright green lenses glowed in the dark, adding to the ten other pairs within the Taurox's interior.

Subtleties were to be observed on the operation, a point Zeleska had made sure to stress to the tempestor prime in command of the team whom he had been assured was the best in his line of work. The Stormtrooper officer had assured Zeleska firmly that he and his scions were completely at his lord's disposal and were eager to carry out the inquisition's work. For the upcoming mission the scions had been issued Mark IX 'Cadian' pattern carapace armour in matte black and sound-suppressed Mark X Voss machine pistols with subsonic ammunition in lieu of their regular Ryza hot-shot lasguns. The unexpected change in equipment and doctrine came as a surprise to the scions who had imagined they were being sent on a deep-cover operation to act as bodyguards for the inquisitor, not to raid a station of the Officio Medicae in the dead of night. Of course, had they been told that they would be going up against the AdMech their attitude would have changed entirely. The AdMech presence inside the facility was on a strictly need to know basis, Zeleska thought smugly, and those simple soldiers did not need to know.

With the loss in motion, the rear hatches swung outwards. The command to disembark was given over the tempestor prime's frequency, appearing to the naked ear as a distorted, robotic growl. Scrambling out onto the road, Zeleska felt the pitter-patter of raindrops on his shoulder pauldrons.

"Sniper team on overwatch," the tempestor prime signalled to two scions.

"Understood." A scion bearing a long-las split from the team. Followed by his spotter he pointed a fist up at the rooftop of the building opposite the medicae facility and fired a grappling hook onto the roof. Both fibre-thin wires were taught as they carried the sniper team upwards, driven by miniature motors attached to their wrists underneath the grapple launchers.

"Slicer on the door." The tempestor prime commanded as the entry team took position on both sides of the sealed, double doors and waited for the slice to commence.

 _Seven seconds,_ Zeleska remarked with approval when the slicer specialist withdrew, folding himself back into formation to await the breach order.

"Move in."

Tall shadows stalked across the entrance hall, sweeping their automatics across the walls and ceiling. No lights were shone as each man's mask was equipped with night vision and thermal sensors to display body heat. Zeleska wore an identical model and saw no bright white smudge show up in his field of view.

"Entrance hall clear, no hostiles." The tempestor prime lowered his aimed Voss and moved across to Zeleska. "Perhaps we should know what our target is before progressing, My Lord."

Zeleska grinned wryly behind his mask, certain the scion had detected it. "Scion. What does a snatch Taurox describe to you?"

"Give us a target and we will recover it." The scion replied without missing a beat. He knew full well this was a snatch operation but not who he and his men were supposed to be recovering.

"Proceed to the seventh floor, Scion. You shall have your answer up there." Zeleska motioned with his Voss at the set of stairs beside the dormant lifts. "After you."

Letting the tempestor prime issue the orders, Zeleska followed behind the officer, feeling his anticipation rising with every floor gained. The feel of the xenos neck in his hands positively excited him. Such an exotic creature she had been. He wondered what secrets she held, whether she would be forthcoming with precious intelligence on whichever craftworld she hailed from, or an empty shell devoid of anything Zeleska would find useful. _How far does her endurance stretch?_ Zeleska debated. Even if the xenos proved a dead end he would still make some use of her. After all, he was an inquisitor. The Imperium and all its resources were at his disposal.

"Where now, My Lord?" The tempestor prime looked to Zeleska's guidance once the team had reached the seventh floor. Poised with their machine pistols covering sectors, the scions froze in place, awaiting their officer's order.

"Aurealis Wing, to your left, right at the end of the corridor. Be aware it may be sealed. Use speed and caution."

"Understood." The tempestor prime signalled his point men to advance. "Hook left. Last door at the end of the corridor."

Twin blips on the comms as the scions acknowledged and spread out into the corridor, each man covering the other whilst they advanced along both walls. Zeleska's breathing was loud in his eyes. He wondered if it was just him or were the scions similarly excited. Not likely. Zeleska had not partaken if field work for quite some time and felt a little out of place within the disciplined, organised ranks of the OrdTemp. It was a heartening to work with such skilled men who were masters in their trade, and many others. Not a word of praise would be spared for them though. Zeleska, as an influential member of the inquisition, could not be seen administering praise to mere soldiers, however gallant or pious. It would be bad for his image, and in the higher ranks of society image was everything.

Without words the tempestor prime motioned the team's slicer to go to work on the door at the end of the corridor. Casting a short glance over his shoulder Zeleska noted the scions were covering the rear as well as every other angle. It would please him most if the scion were at his permanent disposal; the dirty little thought came to Zeleska, making him grin. An arrangement would need to be made. A command terminated too.

"Clear." The slicer had taken a little longer to hack the encryption on the door, a full fifteen seconds.

 _Slow_ , Zeleska snorted derisively. Perhaps these men were not what he was looking for after all.

"It was a Mechanicus encryption on the door," the tempestor prime said flatly. "Mechanicus, My Lord."

Zeleska sensed eyes turn on him, questioning as to why they were breaking into a facility under the administration of the Adeptus Mechanicus; why Zeleska had not forewarned them.

"Carry out your orders, Scion," Zeleska spat, his face twisting in a vile snarl. These men would not turn tail and run at the merest whiff of the AdMech. He would make damn-sure any that did would feel the full wrath of the inquisition come down on them like a tonne of red-hot embers.

The tempestor prime gave the command to sweep the room ahead in the same flat, almost bored tone. Zeleska, letting a few scions brush past him, hung back, wary of traps set by the AdMech. They were a cunning lot, even with their brains rotting through age. Underestimating them was not a pit Zeleska intended to fall into. Let the scions spring the trap. Zeleska was too important to fall prey to a simple AdMech ambush.

"Ward clear." The tempestor prime beckoned with two fingers held over one shoulder for Zeleska to enter.

"Are you sure?" Zeleska aimed the Voss as he entered the ward, tracking across the walls and ceiling as the scions were doing.

"No heat signatures, My Lord."

"Be vigilant, Scion," Zeleska muttered, stepping slowly over to where he remembered the life support pod was. No bulky monstrosity cowered protectively over the pod as Zeleska had hoped. There was nothing, no-one.

 _And now you are mine_ , Zeleska fell onto the pod. Realising there was condensation fogging it he wiped it away with a gloved fist, revealing the dormant body inside. Turning to the LS unit Zeleska examined the device, pushing away a scion that was attempting to tamper with it.

"My Lord?" The tempestor prime was at Zeleska's shoulder. "Is this the target?"

 _No, you dunderheaded moron,_ Zeleska dearly wished to snap to the scion. Tapping the release, uncaring whether the xenos was still in a deep coma, Zeleska waited for the process to finalise; physically heaving up the softly-hissing cover when it rose too slowly. Wafting the wisps of smoke aside Zeleska leant over the body, desperate to see the face.

"Who is that, My Lord?"

 _By the Throne of Terra!_ Zeleska recoiled. Expecting to feel clumps of thick, dark hair in his fingers he instead felt flaky skin that almost peeled off at the touch. Stunned Zeleska took in the remainder of the corpse's body, the thinness of its sunken, yellowy skin. Ramming a fist against the cover, Zeleska swore inwardly, feeling a prize fool for not realising the body gave off no heat. _Where are you? Where are you?!_

"A corpse, My Lord, not what you were expecting?" the tempestor prime said.

Uncoiling inside him like a whip, Zeleska's burning anger saw him turn on the tempestor prime and grab him by both shoulders. Not a single scion raised their weapon in defence of their officer. This was the inquisition the tempestor prime had just angered. They would be wise not to intervene.

A retort laced with the most potent venom was on the tip of Zeleska's tongue when a blinding white light flared out every man's night vision.

"Go to shuttered eyeball," the tempestor prime barked, freeing himself from Zeleska's grasp.

Yanking his mask down, Zeleska clapped a hand to his eyes, momentarily without his sight. Incensed the xenos had slipped through his fingers he fully intended to find the AdMech traitor and kill it now.

"CONTACT" A scion cried, letting loose a burst of gunfire, the ear-splitting booms dampened to dull cracks by the suppressor.

Alarmed that somebody was shooting without first declaring his target, Zeleska shouted, "contact where?" as his vision cleared.

"On the ceiling!" More automatics opened up, the scions firing upwards at things hidden amongst the pipes running across the ceiling.

"By the Emperor – Skitarii!" the tempestor prime muttered, aiming his Voss upwards.

A scion gave a voice-garbled warning as the Skitarii began to unfold, peeling themselves off the ceiling and extending their bodies, swords crackling with blue light in their hands, flechette pistols in the other.

"Inquisitor, move!" The tempestor prime dragged Zeleska away from the pod and thrust him back towards the door, firing one-handed at a Skitarii in a bright red robe as it descended from the ceiling to land atop the open pod, bending the metal underneath its feet. "Break contact!"

Two scions, one armed with a short missile launcher charged through the doorway and knelt, aiming at the spindly mech perched atop the pod and firing its flechette pistol around the room at the scions.

"Avert your eyes." The tempestor prime hauled Zeleska behind the missile team and out of the way of the lethal backblast. A solid _crack_ , magnified to ear-bursting levels was given by the launcher, disgorging smoke from the muzzle and rear. The Krak missile pierced the Skitarii's body, wrecking it entirely. Now coming under fire from other Skitarii ambushers, the missile team moved to disengage and follow their officer who had retreated with Zeleska. Hundreds of razor-sharp darts from the Skitarii's deadly flechette pistols sliced through the carapace, turning both men into pincushions just as their comrades had been.

"Backup, now!" The tempestor prime booted the panel controlling the door with his fist, certain the rest of his team inside were gone.

"Cunning dogs," Zeleska spat, loosening the tight collar around his neck.

"Inquisitor, this way."

The tempestor prime desired a quick departure, judging from his complete lack of vocal tone, Zeleska thought sarcastically. "Indeed, Scion," he replied. As the tempestor prime turned his back, Zeleska rose, slipped a straight knife from the sheathe on his shoulder and lunged deftly for the scion. Aiming the blade at the soft material between the carapace chestplate and the helmet, Zeleska plunged his knife into the neck and worked it up and down sawing at whatever blood vessels he found, with hope either one of the Carotid arteries; both supplying blood to the brain, face, and neck.

"Yes, yes, yes," he whispered soothingly as the scion convulsed in his tight grip. "The time has come for the inquisition to take what is yours. For the Emperor, nameless Scion, for the Emperor."

Overcome with false piety, Zeleska whispered a prayer in the dying scion's ear, then let him drop to the floor. Running boots sounded on the stairs. The remaining scions found Zeleska dragging the tempestor prime away from the Aurealis Wing by his feet.

"Your officer fought the foe with honour, scions. You should be proud," Zeleska said gravely. "But be prouder now that you serve the inquisition."

Obeying Zeleska, the scions took hold of the tempestor prime's body and fell in with their new commander; all without question.

 _The hand of the inquisition reaches far, AdMech thing. You may have won the day, but all beasts have their comeuppance. I shall see that you are taken apart piece by piece, ground into dust, and scattered at all four corners of the Imperium to suffer in obliteration._

* * *

 **Highway 2**

The miniature sun, hanging in the night sky, hissed and wavered as it began its lazy descent downwards. Simon Corta watched the burning flare, briefly mesmerised by the brilliant light it gave off before it dimmed to a tiny ember, disappearing from view, leaving the carriageway and the files of marching men on it in darkness.

In the very early hours of the third day out from Rakka, Cannon Company and the Voynuk Siphanis were still heading south. During their daytime marches, fragments from other units had fallen in with them, forming a single file on both sides of the road that stretched back kilometres. Worryingly for Corta, not a single officer had been seen, just streams of men that were almost entirely leaderless. Those NCOs Corta had heard corralling seemed to be in command of only small groups of men that were not really following their orders, just whatever the other men were doing, and that was retreating.

Precious little motor transport was using the road. A handful of four-tonne Hennus lorries and a few gigantic six-wheeled staff cars had sped down the middle of the carriageway during the day, obviously afraid of air attack and blindly ignoring the jerking thumbs of grunts in hope of a lift to Kasr Jark. C-for-Cannon's captured half-track and Zik motorcycle remained alone in the midst of the disorderly retreat, barely achieving walking pace.

Footsore and tired, Corta hitched his Zeke Lecta higher on the shoulder of his flak jacket, feeling the sores where the vest was pressing. Corta hoped he was setting an inspiring example to the doggedly marching C Company by refusing to ride in the halftrack. True, at no point on the march had Corta given in and climbed into the cab to ride beside Aimo Garst, who was taking it in turns at the wheel with the other men that could drive. If the men could take it then Corta had to as well, and if possible go even further than anyone else. _Throne, I wish Mik Meller was here_ , Corta thought remorsefully. The captain would have been able to whip up the load of odds and sods into a cohesive unit in no time. _He was twice the man I was_.

Brushing aside the memory of Meller, Corta thought of the sixty-odd men he marched at the head of. Cannon had been without food for two days, and rest for three. Short breaks were allowed whenever the men in front stopped which happened seemingly at random. The rest spells were never longer than fifteen minutes then it was back onto the road again. Resting was the hard part Corta admitted to himself, harder still to get back up though. More and more men were relying on their mates to keep them on their feet as time dragged on; if they had any mates at all. If not then those too exhausted to go on were abandoned at the roadside and forgotten. Corta himself was dead certain no man in C-for-Cannon had fallen out. A swell of pride arose within him at that thought.

Keeping pace with Corta on the eastern side of the highway, Lieutenant Leesha D'ambrosia led her sappers in the same tireless manner as him, never having broken stride, and only falling back to check on wavering Siphanis whom she believed were in danger of falling out. Corta, on catching her eye, managed a slow, weary nod, D'ambrosia, remaining chipper, nodded crisply back and smiled, her white eyes flashing in the dark. Impressed by the high level of physical fitness displayed by the Siphanis, Corta regarded his own men who looked positively shambolic compared to the sappers. Still though they were keeping in single file and had hung onto some of their heavier weaponry that many others had chosen to discard somewhere along the road to lighten their load. Cannon was still a fighting unit, and still accepting of orders. Corta had Perandis and other skilled NCOs within the company to thank for that. They were the bolts that kept the machinery from flying apart; bless them all.

"Halt!" The bellowed order came from some distance ahead to Cannon's relief. "Fall out."

"Fall out, lads." Raising his voice to be heard over the slap of bootheels, Corta raised a hand to halt the half-track and motorcycle. "Switch her off, Larn."

"Oh, thank god," someone groaned.

"Why do they keep doing this?" another asked.

"Let's just keep going."

"Don't think anyone will stop you…"

As the collective growls of the Zik and half-track died away, Cannon fell down in the short grass growing beneath the highway and sat against trees that had yet to be targeted by the deforestation programme. Corta, letting Perandis see to the admin, went around the back of the half-track and climbed inside. "How's Molke?" he asked Ral and Carillo, the only men Corta had allowed to ride besides Wharton.

Sunken, sleep-deprived faces looked at him gloomily. Ral spoke first. "He's got a pulse. It's just barely going though. I reckon he's got a few more days before he gives in. I mean he's gone on this long just surviving. He's tougher than we thought, sir."

"Better he's like this," Carillo said. "No pain that way."

Corta understood what Ral and Carillo were skirting around. With no anaesthetic to sedate Molke, the instant he awoke he would be in horrible pain from the shattered ribcage and other internal damage the grenade would have caused.

"…The Siphanis?" Carillo suggested.

"Were forced to leave their wounded behind before they crossed the bridge. Their only medic stayed with them," Corta replied. "Young Molke, if he awakens, shall have to bear the brunt of the pain. Pray it is fleeting."

As cold as it was, Corta spared little emotion on the boy soldier. There were sixty other able-bodies he had to worry about. One young man's death was tragic, but was an everyday occurrence in war.

With nothing else to do but wait, Corta separated from the men and sat down against the half-track's large front tire. His silent offer for Lieutenant D'ambrosia to join him was welcomed readily.

"Your man, Lieutenant?" D'ambrosia spoke in low tones as she sat down beside Corta, propping her lasgun beside his Lecta.

"Unconscious, Lieutenant. The man is tough, and possessing of a hardy soul. Let me worry about his wellbeing."

"I wondered if we might speak informally."

"Very well." Corta checked to see if any were within earshot before relaxing. "Leesha, is it?"

"And Simon?" D'ambrosia reached out and shook Corta's hand, surprising him with her strong, unfaltering grasp. "Surprised a female can keep up with your malingerers?" she said in a subtly teasing manner.

"Never. I've heard of female officers serving in Cadian battalions and aboard warships. Underestimating them would not do, especially if they command equal respect from both sexes subordinate to them."

"And do you wonder how my men and I are in such good shape?"

"Drill?"

"Our home, Voynia, has vast plateaus that rise far above sea level. High up where the air is thin. Closer to sea level as we now are, we Voynians have heightened stamina, granting us our marching prowess."

"And here I thought you lived on a high-gee world. It's just about as boring as you can get on Woerr, where I live."

D'ambrosia laughed softly. "We would be a race of stunted abhumans then, Simon. I cannot think of a worse fate for us."

Corta fell silent, not knowing what he could further discuss with D'ambrosia.

"I have a cardio regime back at barracks in Kasr Jark. I think you might find it useful to improve you and your mens' physical fitness for future operations."

"Hmm," Corta murmured. The very last thing he wanted was more drill forced upon him and Cannon. He was certain a mutiny would break out if the word 'drill' was wafted around the ranks like a bad bout of wind.

"Of course, officers must not mingle with the other ranks therefore it is a given that we exercise separately."

Corta glanced sideways at D'ambrosia. Her face was dead straight.

"I suggest that your staff sergeant liaises with my pioneer sergeant to address the issue of co-operation between our units whilst in barracks."

The traces of a smile ghosted Corta's lips. "Thank you, Leesha. I'm certain your cardio regime shall prove most beneficial in increasing the efficiency of Cannon Company. I look forward to seeing more of you and your men in and out of combat." It was Corta's turn to shake hands. He did so with the customary firmness of the Siphanis; feeling a warmth rising in his heart.

Hard biscuits mixed in with the pink death were bashed into smithereens inside a dented mess tin. Watching Aimo work away at the dry bits of beef with the handle of a pick I leant down and sniffed at the meat. "Ain't gone bad has it?"

"Aw, no." Belisha turned his nose up at it, thinking I had smelt rottenness.

"Any little white things in it?" Kat tried to poke at the brown mush with the point of his knife.

"God's sake, get off." Aimo jerked the mess tin away. "Anyone got any water? I'm gonna try and heat it up."

"No water." I felt for the empty canteen inside the pouch mounted on my belt, wedged between my pistol holster and the lower half of my flak jacket. "No fires at night, neither."

"How long's he been a sarn't again?" Belisha worked a finger inside his ear, sniffing at the blob of earwax he pulled out. "Cause he's already getting on me nerves."

"That means he's a proper sarn't," Aimo grinned. "That's what they do, innit? Get on your nerves."

"And they want to make you clean things back at barracks," Belisha added.

"That's staff sergeants; they're the ones you gotta avoid when you're in barracks."

"Emperor forbid – the stick man," Kat said. "Don't want to cross them, they can be proper scary."

"Land you on a month o' fizzers."

"Or detention."

"What about mess sarn'ts?" Belisha raised a spoonful out of the mess tin and showed the disgusting concoction to Gale who was resting against a tree nearby. "Proper dig o' compo here."

Gale made no reply. Azar, once more on the cookforce, picked his nose and flicked it at Belisha.

 _At least morale's still high_ , I snorted quietly, sticking a hard biscuit between my teeth and biting down, spitting it out when my teeth could not break it. "Aimo, watch the Zik," I said, slinging my KA over my shoulder.

Aimo glanced up at me. "Yeah, mate. Where you off to?"

"I'm taking a chance. Still got time."

"Oh yeah, you'll want these." Aimo dug inside a haversack containing the few remaining personal affects that C-for-Cannon possessed. "Go easy on the wipes."

"Whoa, why does he get the wipes?" Belisha, seeing the handful of grey wipes, started in outrage. "I had to use leaves to wipe me arse."

"Says the lowly lance jack," Aimo grinned sardonically. "Tough shit, pal."

"Ta." Taking the wipes I squelched across a low-lying patch of mud and moved out of sight of the others, passing through several large bracken ferns that rose high above my head. Dislodging showers of water droplets that rained down on my cover, I pressed on until I came to a clearing at the base of an earthy slope where the bracken did not grow.

Planting my Castra and rifle against a tree root, I prepared to take the quickest shit I had ever taken, taking pains to aim at a clear patch of ground inbetween roots. Waiting, motionless, for dumping to commence, I heard a soft whistling; a bird's call. _Birds?_ That struck me as peculiar for I had not seen or heard a single animal, winged or otherwise, on Cadia. _Zeke?_ I picked up my KA, squatting awkwardly with it, nervous I had been caught quite literally with my shorts down.

In silence, unnatural since so many of us were nearby, I turned my head slowly, searching the bracken for Zeke. A slim shadow, observing me from the slope above, made my heart leap into my throat. Swearing profusely I worked my undershorts and trousers back over my bare backside, disturbed before I had been able to go.

Her face half-hidden underneath her hood, the stickie watched me from her vantage as I struggled up the root-covered slope, using the butt of my KA as purchase. Warm from the exertion, I sat down in front of her, resting my rifle across my knees, too tired to talk. If my reluctance translated itself somehow, the stickie understood, keeping quiet also.

"How far you gonna go along this path then?" I asked after our mutual silence. "You're gonna suffer more than I am, that's for damn sure."

Hugging her Arowana to her shoulder, Izuru made the littlest noise, sounding like ' _hm'_ then looked away.

"You're going all the way, aren't you? S'too late to turn back anyhow," I sighed, patting down my trouser pockets for any squashed cigarettes I still had. "It's noble, what you're doing. All this for Keladi. Least I assume that's what it is."

Placing me under her gaze, Izuru wiped a thumb on her dirty cheek. Recent scratches had appeared on her face, and her clothing was dampened by rain. Wearing a content, near-serene expression she blinked lazily. Grey rings underneath her eyes were visible.

"You're digging your own grave out here."

Izuru gave a tiny snort and looked away.

"I wouldn't put money on this mission. You're better off cutting and running back to your people." I regarded Izuru with disdain. "Well, you're gonna get a warmer reception with them than with my lot. Anybody see's you here, they'll waste you, and no-one will be there beside your grave when it's filled in. Just you. Only you."

Pausing, I worked a hand at my sore throat. My feet, legs, hands, lips; they were all sore. Adding to the near-exhaustion was the steadily growing hunger. "You swam the canal, yeah? Crawled through barbed wire, been shot at and blown up too. Can't keep you down, can we?"

Still listening, Izuru shifted her weight, bringing a foot out from underneath her body.

"What do you think one stickie can do in a world filled with humans trying to kill each other? Huh, you tell me. I reckon you need to find a better war, one where you fight for a cause; something right. We haven't got a cause, we're just surviving. It's no place for a stickie."

Giving another pause, I waited, hoping Izuru would say something. The constant silence from her was odd.

Opening her mouth a fraction at last, Izuru spoke softly, "I do this out of love, and that is noble. You would not understand, for you have never loved."

"And those lads back there?" I inclined my head. "My lads?"

"The bonds we forge in battle run deep. But I do not believe you and those men are close."

"You're wrong, Sniper." I showed Izuru the sergeant's stripes in my palm. "They are my lads. They want me with 'em in the worst of contacts. And no uppity stickie's gonna tell me otherwise."

Refraining from commenting on my reinstatement of rank, Izuru instead tilted her head in a strange manner as she examined the grey stripes in my hand. Was it approval or disappointment in her eyes? As ever she was unreadable. "You have earned them. Now you shall keep them." Bowing her head, Izuru ran a hand across her mouth, concealing something she did not want me to see.

I did not miss the attempt to hide her approval. Izuru was pleased, though shied away from showing it. "Tomorrow we'll be in barracks at Kasr Jark," I said, scratching my greasy scalp. "Won't do if your caught snooping round Jark. I'll uh… see if I can hear anything about a stickie. No promises though. I'm not getting involved with this too deeply. It's your mission."

"Yes."

"You'd better promise me too that when – if – you've found her you'll bugger off forever and forget who I am, 'cause this co-operation thing here is gonna hurt you and me, and Keladi if the lid flies off."

"I—I understand," Izuru said. Tugging back her hood she ran a finger behind her ear. "…Sergeant."

"Captain," I replied, placing my stripes on my right shoulder. "Bugger it, lost my housewife."

"Housewife…?" Izuru frowned. "You are married?"

"N-no, my sewing kit."

"Why call it a housewife?"

"I don't bloody know," I snapped, feeling frustrated for no discernible reason. "You – your kind's got all the fancy words—" I broke away, choking at my sore throat. "You got any water?"

"I exhausted my hydration tablets long ago."

"Food?"

"I am sorry." Izuru hung her head. "I watched your army in retreat today. It is a crushing feeling. Trust me, I know. In many wars I have fought. Tasted many defeats with nought gained."

About to reel off the list of problems Cannon Company and I faced to Izuru, I stalled when I imagine that it would sound too much like I was whining. "I've got an ulcer," I said instead.

"An ulcer?" Izuru raised an eyebrow. "That issue rests at the end of a longer string of problems?"

"Nah." I did not want to seem like I was complaining, especially to the veteran soldier before me. "Can't find me needle and thread, that's the problem."

"Your only problem?"

"Nah. My only other problem is you," I said gruffly, "told you back on the Grace that you turn up like a bad egg; looks like it still stands. You're the bane o' my life. Never met a stickie quite as remarkable as this one here. Proper good enemy you were."

"And I have never met a human as _thoroughly_ unremarkable as you," Izuru sniped back. In the place of her measured stare, a gradual smile eased across her features, widening when I looked back at her. Taking it in, I managed a smirk in return, nodding but not really understanding Izuru's meaning though heartened nonetheless by the unexpected warmth she displayed.

Thunder rumbled overhead, a prelude to the first drops of rain which began to fall on us. Hastily slipping on my cover and raising my hood, I slung my rifle bore-down. "Stay safe now," I said, adopting a casual tone of voice which I hoped sounded genuine.

Wiping her water-soaked hand across her face and neck, Izuru smiled briefly. "I will pray for you and your comrades," and, adding with urgent intensity bordering on concern, "be ever vigilant."

"Whack-ho, Sniper," I shot back over my shoulder, skidding down the slope, forgetting all about my call to the latrine as a nagging sense of duty to my mates resurfaced.


	31. Chapter 30

**Highway 2, Cadia Secundus**

Losing track of how long I had been gone, I was relieved to find C Company were still lounging at the roadside, not having moved an inch further on.

"Work out for you alright?" Aimo looked up from where he was steadfastly bashing at the mushy biscuit crumbs with his pick handle.

"Nah, mate, couldn't go," I said shortly, tossing the unused wipes at Aimo.

"Aw, constipation's a bugger," Kat tittered, rubbing at sores on his shoulders.

"When you've gotta go, you've gotta go." Belisha added, chuckling to himself. "See anyone else out there?"

Glancing sharply at Belisha, a little too sharply, something Aimo noticed, I said, "no."

"Dunno. I don't tend to notice much when I'm shitting." Aimo gave me a knowing look.

 _Cheers, mate._

A frantic yammering from Scurm, having been asleep beside the other cooks, caught my attention.

"Bloody hell!" Scurm, his pale face sweaty from fear, thrashed around, groping for his thighs.

"Oi, come on, Scurm." Gale put a steadying hand on Scurm's shoulder. "Bad dream. That's all."

"They were all over my legs," Scurm gasped, his mouth quivering.

"What were?" Weld patted Scurm's other shoulder, a worried look crossing his face.

"Maggots."

"No maggots, Scum, what you on about?" Azar glanced nervously at Scurm's trousers.

"Eating."

Listening to them from a distance I turned my back and trudged up the grass bank onto the highway. Growing ever more dispirited in the drizzle, my mood fell ever further on seeing proof the nightmares I'd had at Rakka were spreading through the company. I knew I had problems but the vivid images were so real, as if they were being fed to me by something otherworldly. I couldn't imagine what effect the visions would have on C-for-Cannon's morale.

Paying the Zik, parked a little further ahead of the half-track, a cursory glance I looked in on Ral and Carillo who were tending to the comatose Molke. "How's Molke doing?"

"Nothing's changed," Carillo said without looking at me. "You can't do anything to help, Sarn't."

"We'll let you know if Molke wakes up, James," Ral, bothering to look me in the eye, said. Even in the darkened passenger compartment I could see the paleness in his skin and a weariness in his slumped shoulders and voice.

"You slept?"

"Don't think anyone has." Ral rubbed his sore eyelids. "I pray we make Jark tomorrow."

"Pray we don't get bombed."

"Ehh." Carillo hugged his cold shoulders tightly.

"You want my flak jacket?" Ral picked up the vest lying in the footwell, the armour plates inside audibly clacking together when he shook it.

"Nah, I'm alright."

"Go walk around a bit if you're cold." I shrugged. "Not hard to keep warm out 'ere."

"Molke's not going anywhere," Ral put gently.

"…Just pisses me off that we can't do nothin' for him." Carillo's face cracked into a despair-filled grimace. "Number one-shagging-thousand."

I agreed. "Could be worse. You could've had to carry him all this way."

"Mmm," Carillo murmured. "S'pose it's 'cause of you we got this MT from Zeke. Thanks for that."

"Me? Nah, I had Ral with me. Zeke got wind he was coming and they were running scared."

"Come off it, James, us lot didn't do a thing. We cleared up the mess, that's all. It was you and your st—" Ral broke off, quickly dawning on him that he had been about to spill our secret to Carillo.

"Him and his what?" Carillo looked back and forth between Ral and I.

"Him and his stupid Kazalak," Ral blurted out. "They're gonna have you on charges if you bring that back to Jark with you. Bloody get rid of it already. You've got a Whupper and that gun on the Zik. What more d'you want?"

His curiosity sated, Carillo fell silent. _Good one, Ral_ , I thought, grateful Ral had managed to keep a lid on without revealing the presence of the stickie, but altogether not unconcerned that Ral's fatigue might make him do something foolish in the near-future. I felt it too. A twitchiness and a quickly sparking temper that paraded hand-in-hand with the sleep deprivation that was beginning to effect all of us. Almost snapping harshly at Izuru over her ignorance of Guard slang had felt justified then. Thinking of it now made me feel strangely rotten.

Taking my leave of the medics, I made my way down to the Zik and bent over the frame, working at the fuel tank cap. In the absence of sunlight I improvised with the KA's cleaning rod to measure the level of fuel, dipping it in and out then examining it. _Nearer empty than full_ , I guessed, turning the shiny metal rod around in my fingers and wiping it down on my trouserleg. Unlatching the lid of the storage bin inside the rear of the sidecar, I dug around inside, shoving the three rectangular ammunition cans to one side and pulling out a toolkit. Wondering what my grandfather would have done to his bike during a period of downtime I knelt beside the Zik, tapping the carburettor casing with my fingertips, afraid to touch it in case the metal was still hot. Mounted next to the casing was a chunky power cell with thick wires that ran all over the frame, bulging over a small reservoir next to it that held the oil for the transmission.

Engrossed in examining the Zik's body, my ears pricked up when a low rumble of motor vehicles rose in the distance. Cannon and Siphani alike began to rise from their patches. Lieutenant Corta, appearing on the opposite side of the highway alongside Lieutenant D'ambrosia, raised a hand as he ran across to me. "Hold your fire!" he cried as rifles, lasguns, and automatics were clutched to bodies in anticipation of a contact.

"Zeke?" I scrambled for my Castra, having left it sitting in the sidecar.

"Don't know." Corta signalled to D'ambrosia to hold her fire. "The men behind us aren't firing, so it's probably some of our lads who got lost."

In response to me aiming the grenade launcher, Corta snapped, "start dropping forty-mil downrange and I'll have your stripes."

"Pfft, charming," I muttered, lowering my Castra. "Sir," I added after a fierce look from Corta.

"Lieutenant?" Aimo leant against a tree, cradling his IM .30 cal, gripping the bipod legs in one hand, the weapon's sling taught over his shoulder.

"Hold your fire," Corta repeated.

Perandis echoed the order, as did D'ambrosia and her platoon sergeant.

A long convoy of four-tonne Hennus trucks, some with their canvas roofs removed rolled steadily towards us, each one displaying black-out headlights and no discernible unit markings. Waving at the lead vehicle, Corta strode forwards to meet it but the driver had slowed to a crawl well beforehand, the cab's occupants apparently wanting to study the unusual half-track parked at the roadside. Exchanging the Castra for my KA I took note of a gunner's mount on top of the cab, where a 19-millimetre bolter, manned by a soldier in a full-face helmet, tracked Corta as he walked towards the lorry.

Halting with a squeak and a hiss of hydraulics, the lorry's passenger door was opened. A thin, raspy voice drifted out. "What is your name and unit, Guardsman?"

A volt of shock surged inside me. Hearing the arrogant, upper-class tones of a born-and-bred lifer brought out a dark anger within. Seeing a commissar's peaked cap for the first time in many months brought back the enmity I harboured towards them. My left forefinger caressed the trigger of the KA before common sense barked at me to stand down.

"Second Lieutenant Corta, Cannon Company, 144th Battalion," Corta said calmly. "Good morning, Commissar."

"Why do you not defer? Have you taken leave of your senses?" The commissar jumped down from the cab and came around the Hennus' nose to stand over Corta, his leather breeches creaking loudly.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand, Commissar," Corta replied, remaining collected as he looked the glaring commissar in the eyes.

"Why do you not salute?" The commissar snarled; planting his gloved hands firmly on his hips.

Glancing away, Corta left his answer hanging. "Well, Commissar, we don't salute in the field because it draws the attention of enemy observers and snipers onto officers and other men of rank. We may well be in a sniper's crosshairs right now," Corta spoke lightly, weighing up the commissar's reaction to what he had just said.

 _Ha! Good man._ Corta knew his way around commissars evidently. I snorted discreetly. _How does it feel to be shown up, you leather-clad bastard?_

Unable to come up with a suitably worded response, the commissar then turned his nose in the direction of the half-track. "On whose authority did you claim that vehicle?"

"My own, Commissar, I am leading my company back to our battalion headquarters at Kasr Jark. As we are all on foot, I decided that we needed transportation. A sergeant of mine led a raid to recover a handful of enemy MT. The half-track and that Zik motorcycle to your left were the results. A scout car was recovered too but that we lost in a bombing raid."

The commissar's hand was resting on his holstered bolt pistol. "What is your current posting, Second Lieutenant Corta?" he said quietly.

"That would be Firebase Rakkassan, Commissar. We were overrun by Zeke three days ago. Our base was destroyed completely and we were forced to retreat. Our comms are being jammed too. So contact with headquarters is currently impossible."

His hand still planted firmly on the flap of his holster, the commissar looked down at Cannon, a sneer on his lips. "Never have I laid eyes on such pitiful excuses for guardsmen."

"We're not guardsmen, we're soldiers. What are we guarding, Commissar?"

The commissar clicked his fingers at the half-track. "The looting of enemy equipment is a punishable offence. It shall be confiscated immediately."

"Beg pardon, Commissar, but I have a wounded man being transported in that track. He's VSI. Smothered a grenade blast."

"All wounded that are unable to walk are to be left behind in the care of medicae personnel. Dispose of the VSI at once." Snapping his fingers again the commissar ordered a driver into the half-track.

 _Cadians._ The plain, bright khaki was obvious, as was the garish white aquila on the front of the man's cover. The number thirty-seven was printed on his right shoulder-guard.

 _Are you going to stop him?_ I stared at Corta who did not notice. Corta in fact did nothing to prevent the Cadians' acquisition of the half-track. Ral and Carillo, stunned at what was happening, were shouted at as they tried to get Molke unloaded.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?" I whispered, outraged at the lifer throwing his weight around and dearly wishing a sniper was lining him up in his sights.

Clasping his hands behind his back, the commissar nodded in satisfaction and remounted, ordering the Hennus' driver to proceed before Corta even had the chance to move safely out of the way. I felt two very choice, two-syllable words were suitably befitting the commissar. Those words I whispered under my breath as the Hennus picked up speed, drawing alongside to where I stood protectively over the Zik. Tucking the stock of my KA into my hip, I pointed it up at an angle, holding it by the magazine, staring coldly at the blackness of the cab. Expecting to be met with the equally frosty eyes of the commissar, instead my gaze fell upon another, sitting between the faceless driver and the legs of the bolter operator. A second commissar, this one having remained in his – her – seat during the exchange, looked back at me. Despite the glass separating the other commissar from me I noticed her pretty face which had a prominent scar running down her brow, crossing her right eye and continuing down her cheek. As I watched, she spoke to someone inside the cab, the other commissar who ordered a second halt, dismounting and bearing down on me.

"What is your reason for discarding your service weapon in favour of an enemy rifle, Guardsman?" the commissar growled. Well over six feet tall, he towered over me like a mountain. I was not about to let this bully gain an inch on me though. I matched him, stern-faced and unblinking, daring him to take my rifle.

"Commissar?" Corta hurried up to me. "This is Sergeant Larn. It was he who led the raid to recover the MT."

"I don't care about the motor transport, Lieutenant. _Why_ is Sergeant Larn carrying an enemy rifle?" A twisted grimace had appeared on the commissar's ugly, bony face.

"In the aftermath of the siege, Commissar, my company was desperately short of ammunition. We were forced to scrounge enemy weaponry to survive. It's the same for all of us. I assure you all enemy firearms will be rendered inoperable before our return to barracks. You have my word."

"Dispose of it immediately, lest your soul be marked by the foul taint of Chaos that weapon bears," the commissar raged. He then turned his attention to the Zik. "This contraption shall go too. I need another driver up here, now!"

Corta, with the commissar's back turned, fixed me with a furious glare.

"Now, damn you!" the commissar stamped around to the Hennus' tailgate.

"Son of a bitch is not having this," I hissed at Corta.

"Let it go, Larn. Let. It. Go," Corta hurled back, his calm, professional mask evaporating on the spot. "Do you want him to make an example out of you, or Aimo, or Ral?"

 _No, of course I bloody don't_ , I thought, digging at the Vraks' mount. "Kat, Belisha, where are you?"

"What?" Kat's voice was gratingly loud. I hoped it would not attract the commissar who was still searching for a driver.

"Help me."

"What are you doing? He'll notice that, Larn," Corta protested.

"Not if you don't, sir." I jiggled the bolt from the mounting bracket and began to lift the stubber free.

"They're bloody stealing our track. You gonna sort 'em out, sir?" Belisha, with Kat, scrambled up the bank.

"Shut up, Lance Corporal."

"Take the gun." I dumped the Vraks into Kat's arms. "Belisha, take the ammo from the boot."

"They're having this too? The swine," Kat moaned, sneaking the stubber out of sight down the bank.

"Ssh!"

"Got it." Belisha pried ammunition containers from the sidecar's boot one by one.

Glancing up at the bolter operator, I realised he was watching us, and was now aware that we knew he was taking note of our actions.

"Oh shit," I breathed. Turning to address the other commissar, who had yet to move or even speak, the gunner explained what we were doing.

Corta had seen it too. "Larn. Stop."

"Make me." I was not replying to Corta, rather the commissar who had me under her gaze once more. Her stare was not an accusatory one, rather one of amusement. It was clear the gunner had told her everything, yet she was choosing to remain quiet and not inform her colleague of our insubordination. The thought of an unobstructive commissar flabbergasted me.

Tearing my eyes from the commissar I picked a carrying bracket that bore two drums and handed them off to Belisha. "Take these too."

"Aw, steady on, Sarn't." Belisha tottered underneath the weight of the three containers, each holding 250 rounds, and pair of drums, themselves loaded with 50 rounds each.

"Iggery." I whispered urgently, afraid the nasty commissar was on the verge of returning.

"Commissar." Corta greeted the ugly man when he returned with a Cadian guardsman in tow.

"There was…" the commissar pointed at the Zik. "There was a mounted gun, a heavy stubber on the sidecar's pintle mount. Where did it go?"

"I don't see any mounted gun, Commissar." Corta said.

Before the commissar could turn his wrath upon me, a Cadian officer approached from down the line of vehicles with Staff Sergeant Perandis in tow. "Is there a problem here, Commissar?"

"The matter is in hand, Major," the commissar replied curtly.

"Lieutenant Corta?" the Cadian major, ignoring the commissar, went to shake Corta's hand. "Major Garsine. I'm OC of Four Company, Second Battalion, 37th Infantry Regiment."

"Good morning, Major." Corta returned the handshake. "Your commissar is in the process of confiscating enemy motor transport my company acquired. We are in violation of the Code Of Conduct. Has my staff sergeant explained our situation?"

"In full, yes." Garsine nodded. "If everything is in order here, Commissar, let us proceed."

"No." The commissar waved a finger around threateningly. "A mounted weapon was removed from that Chaos motorcycle. I want to know where it is!"

"There was no mounted weapon, Commissar," Corta repeated, stone-faced.

"Do not play me for a fool, Lieutenant." The commissar climbed up onto the running board of the Hennus and spoke to his colleague.

"Commissar, one mounted weapon is of little significance." Garsine cast a frustrated look at Corta. "And besides, these men have been on foot for three days straight without proper sleep, and without food for two."

"No!" Jabbing a finger at Garsine, the commissar's enraged features twisted even further. "I will not have you question me, Major Garsine. If you do not defer to the authority of the Commissariat then I shall remove from the position of company commander at once."

Judging from the look Garsine gave Corta, it was plain he did not hold 4 Company's political officer in high regard. _Overzealous bastard,_ I thought. Pettiness was what it was. And why throw a tantrum at such a little thing as a weapon missing? The commissar had the Zik and the half-track. He had won. This was plain childishness.

"Elizabeth…" I heard the commissar speak the other's name a little too loudly. Strangely the female commissar looked to be playing dumb on the matter, as if she was sympathising with us. Either way the angry commissar was coming up short on the matter of the Vraks. This did nothing but drive him further up the wall.

"Very well." Pink-faced, the commissar hopped down from the running board and opened the flap of his holster. "I believe an example is in order."

"We are leaving." Garsine signalled the drivers in the lorries behind to start up. "Commissar?"

"You." The commissar pointed at me. "Step away from that motorcycle and come with me."

"No." Garsine said forcefully. "Let us save our enmity for the enemy. Nothing can be gained by turning on one another at this time."

"Come here." The commissar walked towards me holding his chunky bolt pistol in one hand.

"Commissar!" Garsine barked. "You are out of line."

The moment the commissar whirled to face Garsine I made to raise my KA. Corta grabbed the rifle by the gas block before I could shoulder it and thrust it upwards. "Don't you bloody dare, Larn."

"Leave with us, or leave with Cannon Company. We will not wait for you." Garsine's ultimatum was met with zero response from the commissar, who elected to glare daggers at the Cadian.

"Come. The motorcycle and half-track shall join the rear of the column." Garsine indicated the idling Hennus. With the commissar remounting Garsine mouthed to Corta, "my condolences to your man."

Corta said nothing; nodding back glumly.

"Now what, sir?" I asked once the convoy had passed by.

"Now you're gonna get rid of that rifle, Larn. Don't ever try and go toe-to-toe with a commissar again. Do you understand me?" Corta spat on the ground, muttering, "bloody commissars."

"I was speaking with their OC, Lieutenant. He says every callsign he heard before comms went down said they were making for Kasr Jark."

"So it's a general retreat then?"

"At least until somebody can scrape together a counterattack, or at least a blocking force." Corta scratched the back of his sweaty head. "Throne, this is starting to become more and more of a shambles."

"Least we know what everyone else is doing now and they can't get us for desertion," Perandis said.

Lieutenant D'ambrosia, wisely avoiding the fractious commissar, joined us. "Give thanks that that commissar did not make an example out of your men," she said to Corta. "It's dangerous to cross them."

"Least we know who to look out for now, huh, ma-am?" I said. "Bloody thirty-seventh Cadian. We know they're a shower o' bastards now."

D'ambrosia shot me with a mildly-offended glance. "I'm sorry, were you at liberty to speak?"

"Uh, this is Sergeant Larn." Corta raised a hand to attract D'ambrosia's attention from me. "The man that recovered the Zeke MT for us."

"Well, don't mean shit now, does it, sir?" I grunted.

"With an attitude like that, Sergeant, no wonder the commissar chose to pounce on you." D'ambrosia regarded me like she would a petulant child.

Corta made a discreet motion to Perandis. Catching Corta's eye, Perandis jerked his head at me. "On me, Larn, iggery."

Taking me out of earshot of the officers, Perandis first made sure we were not too close to either the Cannons or the Siphanis before giving me a stern talking to. "You are walking a fine fucking line here, young man – oi, look at me. Look me in the eye." Pausing to ensure he had my undivided attention, Perandis continued. "This insubordinate streak of yours, I have no idea of the reasons behind it, and I don't want to know. What I am very aware of is that you are a smart lad and can take care of yourself. Zeke's not too great a worry for you right now. Your biggest concerns are men like that commissar whom I can assure you are found in great abundance both in and out of the service. Unless you sort your problem out yourself then it will be the Guard that spells your end, Larn, not Zeke. Tread with caution around officers of the Commissariat. I won't be having this talk with you again."

"Yeah, I know those kinds o' men, Staffy. Lifers."

"Whatever nickname you have for them keep to yourself." Perandis eyed me dangerously. "Your rank and your life: aren't they precious to you? They are all you have."

"The Imperium's taken much more than that from me." I said slowly, giving Perandis a dead-eyed stare.

Glowering, Perandis shouldered past, leaving me standing in the road. "Lose that rifle!"

Mutterings about slipping a grenade into a commissar's pocket, among other methods of fragging, were circulating the lads when I sat down amongst them. "Where's Aimo?"

"Here, James," Aimo's voice came from a bush a short way away. "Using the ones you didn't."

"Eurgh, I can smell the slab from here." Kat wafted the air around his face. "Least we saved the stubber." He nudged the Vraks which was sitting on its bipod legs beside him. "Plenty of ammo too."

"Hey." Cyrano, behind me touched my shoulder. "We recovered the anti-tank rifle rifle from the track before those Cadian dogs could steal it."

"Cadian dogs!" Belisha snorted loudly. "I can think of so many better phrases for 'em, that commissar too. What a twat."

"Molke? Ral and Carillo?" I got up and scanned the mens' heads for the medics.

"Ho!" A soft voice called back.

"Molke?"

"Same as before."

Returning from his session, Aimo flopped down next to me and pulled his IM stubber closer. "Saw the markings. Thirty-Seventh. Some Cadian regiment."

"Hard to miss," I said.

"Do they think having bright white paint on their body armour puts the wind up Zeke?"

"Could be some psy-ops shit." Kat suggested.

"Makes 'em great targets." I tipped my cover off and loosened the collar of my smock, rubbing at my aching shoulders. "Bullseye over the heart and on the head."

"Yeah, prob'ly some psy-ops shit. Cadians want you to know who they are 'cause they're so good, apparently." Kat flicked a damp match away. "Weren't no Cadians at Rakka."

"Nah." I felt like praying that the Cadians would make no further obstruction of our retreat.

"Fall in!" Lieutenant Corta shouted. All along the road, men from other units were picking themselves up and rejoining the column.

Laughably, it was the Cadians who were impeding us more now by taking our vehicles, rather than Zeke. As I fell in in front of Aimo I half-jokingly remarked to myself that Zeke was our adversary, and the Cadians were now our enemy. When passed on to Aimo, he gave a single bark of laughter, and that was it.

* * *

 **Kasr Jark, I Corps Headquarters, 03:05**

For Lieutenant General Cathker Wallace, GOC of Cadian I Corps, the boredom of sitting inside Corps Headquarters in Jark, waiting for an order, was numbing. Boredom drained energy. Boredom took time. Boredom sapped courage. _I do not have as much courage when I am bored_ , Wallace admitted to himself, taking a drag on a thin cigar and puffing smoke rings; watching them as they drifted up towards the ceiling.

The word retreat was in the mind of every man, I Corps or not, that was falling back in disarray on Jark, hoping to secure their safety within the thick walls of the Kasr. Possessing a keen awareness of the strategic situation that only a general would have, Wallace knew that the thousands of men, their units fragmented into near-nothingness, would be barred entry from Jark, and ordered to reform for a counterattack northwards along Highway 2. That was Creed's strategy. Attack when the enemy least expected it. Only the order had yet to come, leaving Wallace at a loose end and too tense to sleep.

Orbital observation delivered a clear image of enemy engineer units all along the Luten, constructing pontoon bridges where the previously-standing road and rail lines had been, permitting the dark waves of Chaos access to Cadia Secundus. Wallace's three divisions: 3rd, 9th, and 15th, tasked with the defence of the river, had been whipped severely and forced to withdraw in the face of aggressive thrusts from Chaos shock units. I Corps' retreat was not a dignified one with daily air attacks ravaging retreating columns of guardsmen and wrecking transports and armour. Not a single friendly aircraft patrolled the skies, covering the Corps-wide withdrawal. The complete lack of air cover stung Wallace, who could do nothing but watch his Corps be systematically chewed to pieces. Of the three divisions, 3rd now existed only on paper, having been given rear-guard detail; going down against warbands of Traitor Marines. 9th had had its three infantry and one artillery regiment chopped up, leaving it with only battalions of men remaining, and no heavy equipment. 15th, the least damaged during the fighting nonetheless had lost a high percentage of its junior officers and NCOs as with 9th, greatly effecting unit cohesion. Rumours that there were only corporals and below, and majors and above left to command companies and battalions dragged at Wallace's nerves incessantly. _My men are being cut to shreds and those Marines do nothing but watch!_

The endless list of problems Wallace was contending with paled in the shadow of problems the Space Marines posed. Augmented to such an extent they were beyond human, and with a hideous arrogance that matched only the Eldar, the Marines of the Space Wolves Chapter garrisoned within Jark's walls were just as much a thorn in Wallace's side as Zeke was. Too prideful to stoop to assisting Wallace's corps, the Space Wolves were conducting their own operations, completely separate from the Guard chain of command; hence Wallace could do nothing but offer advice to Orven Highfell, the Wolves' commanding officer. Highfell himself, the most arrogant of the lot, had repeatedly ignored Wallace's suggestions for closer co-operation between Guard and Marine units, his reasoning being that the humans would only impede his Marines' operations. A cold reminder from Wallace that they were on the same side was met with nothing but thinly-veiled threats against the lives of his men. Highfell went on to further reprimand Wallace for attempting to send a unit of Imperial Guard over to the Dark Angels' 4 Company, which was still holding onto their downed strike cruiser, the Sword of Defiance, a few klicks south of the Luten. The terse reply from Wallace that he had sent no order Highfell responded to with further threats, this time very much overt. If any Imperial Guard unit, I Corps, Cadian, or otherwise, attempted to approach any Marine unit, Space Wolf, Dark Angel, or otherwise, they would be fired upon; with no warning shots beforehand. Near-apoplectic and struggling to maintain his composure Wallace said that unless Marine and Guard units could work together professionally, and without the former falling victims of immense pride then the effort of driving the enemy back across the Luten would ascertain a marked increase in casualties for both branches, and the enemy would still be there.

" _Pride, hubris, vanity, arrogance_ ," muttered Wallace, rolling his cigar between his fingers. Flickering on the table before him, the operations map, showing the section of Cadia Secundus around the river and Jark, remained static with only the two white blots denoting the retreating Corps, and the enemy in slow pursuit making any significant movement. "Standby for further orders," Wallace repeated Creed's last communique to himself. He knew full well what Creed wanted of him. Just the manpower and logistics forbade a concentrated counter-punch at present.

A buzz at the door and a staff officer entered the near-empty operations room. "General, sir, I have an intelligence colonel here to see you."

"An intelligence officer?" Wallace's neatly-trimmed eyebrows jumped up. "Very well, send him in."

It could have been far worse. The visitor might have been Orven Highfell come to further chastise him on his operational conduct. Dashed funny time for an intelligence officer to be calling though, at zero three-hundred too!

"Pardon me, where are my manners." Wallace rose from his chair as a slim, attractive woman in Cadian khaki and carrying a green beret entered the room and clicked her heels. "At ease. Lieutenant General Cathker Wallace."

"Lieutenant Colonel Donjeta Lapraik." The officer went to shake Wallace's hand, surprising him with her firm grip. "How do you do, General."

"A very good morning to you too. What can I do for you, Colonel?" Wallace asked, offering Lapraik a chair. He was surprised at her apparent youth for she did not appear to be even out of her twenties; extremely young for a light colonel. Wallace himself, at fifty-four, was fit and spry. Lapraik looked to be half his age, unless her looks were deceiving him.

Bluntly, and refusing the offered chair, Lapraik said, "General, I was dispatched from Kasr Kraf by the lord castellan himself to recover the choir beacon from Kasr Luten. As of today I am five days late in returning to General Headquarters. I have not been able to secure transport south as the highways are choking with off-worlders. My colleagues and I have, for the last three days, been unable to take a Valkyrie out of Jark; all of them are overloaded with wounded personnel."

Leaning forwards in his chair, Wallace offered a cigar to Lapraik. "You should have come to me immediately after you arrived here. Three days wasted will not be received well at GHQ."

"No thank you, General, I do not smoke. Were other means of transport available I would have considered them. After all, there is war on, isn't there, General?"

"Hah." Wallace snorted at the cheek. "Damnably so."

"With your permission I would like to vox a communique to the lord castellan, explaining my absence."

"Yes, yes. I shall allocate a private channel for you, Colonel. Er, this choir beacon you speak of…"

"Once installed within Kasr Kraf the Astropaths shall send out hails for relief," Lapraik said smoothly.

"Hmm, yes." Wallace flicked open his lighter and lit another cigar. "Let me arrange quarters for you and your party. Unless you are already billeted?"

"My thanks, General. I am afraid we are not used to sleeping rough. It has been a trying few days for us."

"For us all. I shall see you are lifted out of Jark when transport becomes available again at dawn. Do not count on any before that time."

"Understood, General. If that will be all?"

"No, Colonel. Let me tell you, I am damned bored at sitting around waiting with nothing to do, nobody around for a bit of idle chit-chat." Again offering Lapraik the chair, Wallace added, "being a general is immensely difficult as it is only other generals that I can chat freely with. And I do not see any other generals in this room."

Clasping her hands behind her back, Lapraik said, "your pardon, General, I am not well-trained in the topic of idle chat for it breeds dissent, sedition too."

"Breeds dissent!" Wallace laughed. "Is that what you young Cadians are being taught these days? Cannot even take your mind off duty or the Emperor once lest treasonous thoughts surface, never heard so much codswallop in my entire life. Tell me, madam, have you ever been in combat? Sit down, for god's sake."

Sitting down stiffly, Lapraik said, "I served in the Whiteshield Corps between the ages of fifteen and nineteen, General."

"Are were inducted into one of our shock battalions after?"

"No, sir. I chose a course in basic intelligence and counter-intelligence. I have dedicated my career, as all loyal imperials should, to upholding imperial values and the human way of life for sixteen years now. I believe I can be of more use in a non-combat role as it is intelligence that wins wars, despite what they say about the tanks of the Imperial Guard."

"Yes, yes you are quite correct, Colonel." A devout imperial then. Too much emphasis was put on devotion to the cause these days. It seemed like basic human qualities such as compassion and loyalty to friends were becoming less and less tolerated. "Have you ever served in a forward area outside a Kasr?"

"I was forced to land at a firebase after my Valkyrie took hits on the way out from Kasr Luten. This was less than a week ago now. Rakkassan I think the name was. A Captain Meller was in command."

"Rakkassan and Sollenthul, yes." Wallace had vaguely heard the names mentioned in a previous briefing. With Zeke across the river and contact lost, it appeared both garrisons had perished in the fighting. "Minor losses but as part of the outer perimeter they must've expected not to pull through anyway," Wallace said. "At least they had the opportunity to go down fighting the enemy hand-to-hand."

"There is no greater glory than dying for the Emperor, sir," said Lapraik stonily.

"No, there is not." Wallace felt the lie coming naturally, and hated that he was admitting it openly.

* * *

 **Highway 2 Junction, Cadia Secundus, 08:13**

Bomb craters and destroyed vehicles dotted the highway. Creeping up the slip road branching off the main carriageway, Cannon Company and the Voynuk Siphanis joined an even larger body of men and women that were coming in from the west along the main causeway that led the final thousand yards to the looming outer walls of Kasr Jark. The structures could be seen above the scattered trees lining the causeway. Dark, reinforced walls many metres thick, teasing the thousands lining up to get inside with prospects of shelter from the bombers and security from the unseen menace dogging at their heels.

"Stay together, men!" Corta, at the head of our group, shouted. "Perandis, Larn, Garst, keep us together."

"Look at the man next to you." D'ambrosia, also leading, advised her men. "Remember his face. Levauz, keep us all together."

"Bloody hell," a Cannon grunted as he was squeezed inbetween his mates and men from a different regiment.

"You there, dark skin, grey cap. You are jumping the queue!" A Cadian officer pushed through the crowd to confront D'ambrosia. "Move out of the line and await your turn. There are too many men on this bridge."

To further dampen spirits, the officer ordered Corta to pull Cannon from the line as well. The jeers and insults I had imagined would be tossed at the Cadians by the men of C-for-Cannon was instead marked by an exhausted silence from the grunts as they threw themselves down at the side of the road to wait for their call.

We were close enough to see the spires of Jark, poking high above the jagged ramparts. Scanning the passing Cadians lazily, I remarked that it was good the unit that was waiting to embark upon the causeway wore shoulder guards that bore the number 32. If it was the 37th that was hampering us again I might have done something quite asinine. I had noticed that one of the wrecked vehicles near where we were waiting was our half-track. Of the Zik there was no sign. _Well, if we can't have it then neither can they_ , I thought, going over there and kicking at the smouldering armour plate.

"Stickie," Peter Leurbach gasped, awakening from his doze.

"Ssh, it's alright, Peter." Woulter clasped his son by the shoulders. "Just a dream."

"Ain't no stickies here. What you on about?" one of the nearby Highlanders said.

"It's Zeke we gotta worry about," said another.

Overhearing Peter's outburst, I swore under my breath, working my toecap under a twisted chunk of metal and kicking it about in annoyance. The last thing I wanted was Peter blabbing about Izuru in one of his nightmares.

"Any water, Dad?" Peter asked.

"I'll see if there's some about."

As with every other man, Woulter's canteen was bone-dry and his Zeke haversack was empty. Cannon's energy was fast on the decline, the Siphanis' too. Even with their heightened stamina they could only go so far on limited rations and zero hydration.

"Piss off." Kat groaned at Woulter.

"You and that wean can go do one for all I care." Belisha prodded Woulter in the leg with the butt of his .338, too tired to get up and shove Woulter away.

"Water." Woulter looked to me.

Shaking my head slowly, I nodded over at Ral. "Ral might have some."

"Any water," Woulter asked Ral tentatively. "For the… for the boy."

Glancing at the dozing Peter, Ral worked his canteen from its carrier on his hip and tossed it up at Woulter. "Was saving the rest of this for Molke."

The canteen was preciously light, Woulter found when he shook it, hearing the faintest of splashes. "Why don't you take Molke across now? Surely they'll let a stretcher case across."

"No, you stupid twat. Didn't you hear the officer?" Carillo spat, massaging his sore throat. "We have to wait our turn."

"Calm down," Ral said. "No use in getting worked up over this. It's out of our hands."

A commotion between the Highlanders and a group of Cannon men caught Ral's attention. Jumping to his feet he went over to a Highlander who was pulling at a canteen in one of the Cannon's hands. "Hoi! Break it up! Break it up!"

Glancing down at Ral's canteen, Woulter sloshed it around, thinking. "Corporal, here's some water," he said, offering Ral's canteen in an effort to placate the thirsty Highlander.

"Aw, you're a true Gellen you are," the Highlander grunted in his peculiar accent, accepting the canteen and taking a sip, passing it back to the other two.

"Right, what's your name, Corporal?" Ral asked, chivvying the Cannon men away from the Highlanders before a scuffle could break out.

The Highlander straightened the floppy beret on his head and said, "Lorne, Callum Lorne."

"Okay, Lorne. I don't want to see any more trouble between your Highlanders and my lads. Man-to-man, let's start again. We got off on the wrong foot before. I apologise on behalf of the company for your previous treatment."

"Naw, you treated us good and proper. Just, I s'pose we're in the same boat now. S'not a lot we can do 'bout it."

"Good man." Ral said, returning to Woulter and Carillo.

"Can I make a suggestion?" Woulter pointed at some Cadians that had been killed by an artillery or bomb blast a stone's throw from the body of the half-track.

"Yeah, the Cadians abandoned their wounded. We're not doin' that."

"They're letting Cadians through first, right?"

"Right…"

"Then why don't you become Cadians?"

Ral stared at Woulter in amazement. He felt the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind.

Tacking on behind Lieutenant Corta, D'ambrosia, Perandis, and Levauz, I followed the officers and other NCOs as they strove to work their way through the tight ranks of the 32nd occupying the bridge span, encountering other officers from a myriad of different units – all non-Cadian – who were arguing with a Cadian officer on the far side where a coil of barbed wire was strung across the causeway. The Cadian, not of the 37th thankfully, was trying to keep the other officers at bay, all of whom were bombarding him with questions.

"No foreign units. No foreign units past this point." The Cadian, wearing a waterproof jacket and armed with a map case, tried vainly to brush off the disgruntled questions flung at him, gesturing with his arms at the officers to leave. "Cadians only."

"What's happening here?" Corta asked, coming up behind the backs of the officers.

"They're not letting any units apart from Cadians through," someone replied.

"Okay, let me speak to your commanding officer," Corta, pushing through, said to the Cadian.

"No. Kasr Jark is full to bursting. They cannot take any more units. All of you get back from the barricade. I am under orders to admit Cadian soldiers only. Jark's gates will be closing shortly. You cannot remain here."

"Bloody shambles," I muttered.

"What are you doing here, Larn?" Perandis noticed me standing behind him for the first time. "You weren't asked to come."

"Came to see what was what, Staffy."

"Yeah well, I'd bugger off if I were you. There's commissars watching."

"Where?" I raised myself up on tip-toes to see over the shoulders of the officers in front. "Oh, sons of bitches," I muttered. The ugly commissar from the 37th was standing with a whole group of them off to one side but within easy calling distance of the officer guarding the causeway. But on a less grim note, the pretty female commissar with the scar was there too. Tall, with a heart-shaped face and blond hair, she stood out from the other commissars, all of whom were men. Further back were 37th Cadian troops who were guarding the causeway.

Corta meanwhile was arguing heatedly with the Cadian. "Let me speak to your commanding officer. Look my— my battalion headquarters is inside Kasr Jark; 144th Battalion. We need immediate entry. I have a critically wounded man in my care. A VSI case."

"No, no, orders are to let only Cadians cross this line. All other regiments are to continue south on Highway One to Kasr Kraf before the enemy arrives."

"But our battalion HQ is over there –it's right there," Corta snarled. "Get this bloody barricade removed and let us all across." Bolstered by Corta's words, the officers began to shuffle forwards, no longer content with the Cadian's excuses.

Sensing discipline was near-fragmenting the Cadian's hand went to rest on his holstered laspistol. "Commissar. I need a commissar here."

To my chagrin it was the ugly one who detached himself from the others and came to stand at the Cadian's shoulder, opening his holster. "Unless you return to your units, I will pick out an officer at random and start making examples," he barked above the noise.

"Bastard," I tutted.

"Stretcher party coming through," a cry came from further back across the bridge. Neatly, every queuing man and woman folded his or herself to one side of the bridge to let the stretcher-bearers pass.

"Let those stretchers through!" the Cadian officer shouted before the commissar could wrestle control of the situation from him. "GET OUT OF THE WAY."

"Okay, let the stretchers pass," an officer senior to Corta said. Splitting down the middle we waited for the long line of stretcher-bearers to file past.

"Along the causeway, right to the very end," the Cadian officer beckoned frantically, glancing at his timepiece. "Keep moving along the causeway."

"Right, let's talk about our own wounded…" An officer beside Corta began to the Cadian's exasperation.

"Psst." A nudge behind me from a pair of Cadian stretcher-bearers that had lagged behind the main party.

"Sorry, mate." I tapped Perandis to get him to move aside.

"Oi, James, it's us." Ral whispered. He and Carillo were dressed in the double-breasted khaki fatigues the Cadians wore. Both had ill-fitting two-piece body armour on over their fatigues and the large ballistic covers with a bright white aquila on the brow.

"Oh, bloody good, mate," I grinned and gave them a discreet thumbs-up. "Good luck to ya."

"See you." Ral winked and pushed past Perandis. Whether or not the staffy recognised Ral and Carillo, he kept quiet about it, notifying the other officers in front that more 'Cadian' stretcher-bearers were coming through.

"That's it. Go, go, go." I watched with a dry throat as Ral and Carillo were let through the wire without so much as a second glance from the Cadian officer and ran off along the causeway, disappearing into the queuing grunts. A sharp glance at them from the female commissar made my stomach turn. _Does she know?_ Slowly, as if purposely searching for something, the commissar found and gave me a knowing look. She was very clever, and she had not said a single word. I suspected she hated having to work alongside men like the ugly commissar who was stalking around looking for somebody to berate or threaten with his bolt pistol. True, the idea of a good commissar was quite alien to me.

"You and your men will have to continue along the highway down to Kasr Kraf, we cannot take any more of you inside Jark. That is final!"

"Step away from the barricade. GET BACK!" the commissar drew his bolt pistol and fired it into the air. "In the name of the Emperor, be away with you."

"Useless," Corta mouthed to D'ambrosia.

"I share your frustration, Lieutenant."

"Kraf it is then."

Turning away with Perandis and the Siphani sergeant, I heard a loud bark from the commissar.

"You, Guardsman, are out of uniform. Step forwards for punishment!"

"Go, Larn, go." Perandis shoved me into the crowd and delved after me, ignoring the commissar's ranting.

Fighting our way back down the line we made it back across the bridge to where Cannon and the Siphanis were sitting. Slumping at the base of a tree, panting, I reached back for my canteen only to remember it was long dry. "I dunno why that big cap keeps harassing me, Staffy."

"I told you to dispose of that rifle, Larn." Perandis tugged the sleeve of my sniper smock. "This is gonna get you shot for being out of uniform."

"Sorry, Staff Sarn't. We've all got stolen gear though, 'aven't we?"

"Larn." Corta appeared and knelt in front of me. "Where's Ral and Carillo?"

"Sorry, sir?"

"Ral and Carillo. And where's Molke too?"

"Uh, should be somewhere along the causeway now, sir." I pointed vaguely in the direction of Jark. "They were the two Cadians who went last."

"What—? You should've told me beforehand. I could have ordered them to report to battalion HQ for me. Get orders from Major Sebben," Corta cursed, slapping his thigh. "So they're deserting…"

"I think we're the ones deserting, sir," Perandis said.

"And I didn't know, sir. I was with you. Maybe they just came up with it on the fly."

"Well, it was worth a try." Corta rose and stared into the distance at the gently-rising causeway packed with men. "At least some of us got through."

* * *

 **Kasr Jark, The Barbican, 08:47**

Casting his contemptuous gaze upon the unclean tide of refugees and imperial guardsmen from the ramparts of the 200-foot high barbican, Orven Highfell, commander of the Space Wolves' Great Company turned to address General Cathker Wallace and the small entourage that were accompanying him. "In thirteen minutes you shall give the command for the gates to seal. Am I clear, General Wallace?"

Checking his gilded chrono, Wallace replied, "thirteen minutes will not be long enough for our techpriests to bless the gate mechanisms in holy oil and perform the correct rituals for its operation. Lord Highfell, these gates have not been shut since the Twelfth Black Crusade, 850 years ago."

"Do not attempt to play me by the book, human." Highfell shifted, his armour clanking, to face Wallace. "At zero nine zero zero, these gates will be shut. Most of your forces are now garrisoned within these walls, enough for the upcoming siege."

"Sir, I have no intention of cramming all my eggs into one basket for a grinding siege. This is a war of manoeuvrability, air power and logistics. Such an outdated strategy belongs in the Age of Strife."

"And you have been outmanoeuvred, human."

"You are welcome to accompany my Corps when we have reorganised for the counterattack, Lord Highfell. Your support would be most beneficial, both for manpower and morale."

Highfell cast an arm out. "Counterattack? All I see are frightened men, men who seek to bury themselves within these walls and hope they can withstand the Chaos spawn."

"And what of the Great Company? You are their commanding officer, Lord Highfell. What is your strategy?" Cathker asked, earning a dangerous glare from the seven and a half foot tall man bedecked in wolfskins and gold braid.

"It is not the place of a Space Marine to discuss operational strategy with a mere human. Shut. The. Gate."

"I have stretcher cases still to come," Wallace said, standing his ground. "In the name of the Emperor I will consider sealing the outer gates once all the wounded are inside. Not before."

As he said it, Wallace looked down from the barbican and saw the parting of the masses before the stretcher cases, giving them an uninterrupted run through the gatehouse and into the city.

"There are your stretcher cases, General Wallace. Make haste to seal the gateway," said Highfell.

"My lord, the holy rituals…" a staff colonel beside Wallace said.

"Thank you, Colonel," Wallace said brusquely, fearing the Space Wolf would begin issuing threats to his headquarters. Threats to himself he would take. Any made towards his men was unacceptable. "Send word to the gatemaster. Begin the procedure."

Well behind the stretcher party, Ral and Carillo elbowed and pushed at Cadians that were unaware of their presence, some sidestepping without any further action, some grabbing comrades by the shoulders and hauling them out of the way. His arms starting to feel the strain, Ral gritted his teeth and continued to push ahead; trusting Carillo would keep his end of the stretcher level. Along with drizzle falling from the cloud-covered sky came a grating, tearing shriek of incoming artillery that landed in the wastes on the north side of the causeway, producing huge, concussive blasts, flinging showers of damp earth into the air. Every man and woman, packed tightly together in lines, ducked as low as they could and clutched their helmets in fear, rising back up in unison when the earth settled.

Within the armoured walls of the barbican, Gatemaster Eurad Kormachen tucked his hands inside his wide sleeves and bowed his head out of respect for the two Enginseer Adepts of the Mechanicus as they began dousing the giant chains that held the gates in holy oil. The murmurs of the machine-men Kormachen dutifully blocked out. It was heresy to be privy to such a holy ceremony, but Kormachen was the gatemaster, and had been for eighty-six standard years. Even with the age rejuvenates keeping his body in operational condition, Kormachen knew he could not halt the process of time, only delay it. _Grant me another day to serve, Holy One_. _I ask only one more day as I have for so long. I have asked and you have given. Yet I ask again that you lend this wizened body further time to serve thee_.

The Adepts withdrew; their their ritual complete. Keeping his eyes averted, Kormachen sighed, grateful above all that he could still serve. "Blessed by the holy oils of the Machine God, let these sacred chains bear the strain of the gates of this mighty kasr." Kormachen felt a surge of elation flow through his old joints as the chains began to groan. Weeping, the old gatemaster fell to his knees. Weeping from pious joy, Kormachen made the sign of the aquila proudly on his chest. "The Emperor protects!"

His hands sore from gripping the wooden poles so tightly, Ral sucked air into his burning lungs. Having to run uphill with Molke's weight wearing him down was a nasty reminder that bearing a stretcher case for longer than a short spell was absolutely killing. _Come on, little lad. Hang in there. We'll get you home safe and sound_ , Ral thought determinedly, closing his mouth and inhaling through his nose, pressing onwards as sporadic artillery fire shook the causeway's foundations and rain began to fall harder, splashing on helmets and shoulders. Unable to wipe away the water flying into his eyes, Ral squinted, concentrating on where his scuffed, filthy boots were treading. Carillo's laboured breathing behind drove Ral on, reminding him he was not alone. As important as it was to ferry Molke to safety, Ral vowed to make a return journey back down the causeway once their charge was certain to be on an operating table. To shut himself away inside Jark whilst his mates were trapped outside and forced to flee further afield Ral viewed as something akin to cowardice. He could not bear to think that one of them, Larn, Aimo, Kat, or Cyrano might be wounded in his absence. As little as Ral could do if one of them did get hit, he had to be there when it happened. He had to.

"Careful there. Watch your footing." A 37th Regiment Cadian, noticing the stretcher coming up behind him, moved to check Ral's pace. "The going is treacherous ahead."

Without the breath to reply, Ral saw what the Cadian was warning him about. An earlier artillery barrage had scored a lucky hit directly in the centre of the causeway. The shell, ploughing through the roadway and the steel supports underneath, had blown a large, jagged hole, almost cutting the causeway in two, leaving only torn-up girders that stuck out like twisted, broken fingers. A crude walkway made of thin metal sheets had been laid across the gap. To Ral's alarm they were trembling in the wind.

"Make way ahead! Stretcher-bearers," the Cadian cried, attracting the attention of more 37th that were gathered on the other side of the hole.

"With haste, in the name of the Emperor," a Cadian beckoned.

"Quickly. Do it quickly," another grinned encouragingly.

Edging forwards, Ral put his weight on the metal, stumbling in fear when the roar of a shell momentarily blocked out his hearing, along with his sense of balance. Sodden earth flung up by the explosion pelted his cover and flak armour, the rain making it stick. Poised with one foot on the rickety bridge, Ral tested his weight and went for it. The thing was slippery underfoot and flexed from his and Carillo's combined weight as they carted Molke across to the other side, earning a ragged cheer from the Cadians. Ral thought, _if only they knew_ , keeping his head down as the Cadians urged him onwards. However dishonourable the queue-jumping was, Molke's life depended on it, and Ral was very willing to live with the consequences if found out. Rushing up to the head of the line, Ral broke free from the Cadians and was brought to a halt by an officer with red stripes on his cover and shoulder guards.

 _Interior Guard._ Ral shuddered inside. With the Interior Guard officer were guardsmen in similar red livery, bearing cudgels and tall tower shields. They looked like thugs brandishing such weapons.

"Halt," the provost barked in a nasal voice. "Why were you not with the main party?"

"We fell behind, sir," Ral panted, his arms trembling under the weight.

"What unit are you?" The provost used his wooden swagger stick to lift up the blanket covering Molke.

"37th, sir."

"This man is not a Cadian." The provost eyed Molke's dirty OGs with suspicion before jabbing his stick at Ral. "Who is your commanding officer?"

"Garsine, sir." Ral remembered the name of the Cadian Perandis had been talking with the previous night. "Major Garsine."

"I see."

Ral shifted awkwardly, keeping his gaze set on the ground, aware the provost might take notice of his eye colour.

The provost turned to a subordinate. "You, locate this Major Garsine and bring him here. I want the identity of these two verified."

Before the runner could be dispatched, a shrill whistle, followed by a shout echoed down the tunnel of the barbican. "Five minutes, sir!"

The provost checked the chrono on his wrist. "Confound it. We are closing up, gentlemen."

A mechanical whirring, deep inside the walls, made Carillo jump and swear under his breath.

"Please, sir," Ral begged, glancing up at the tunnel roof anxiously.

The waiting Cadians behind had heard the groan of the gate. The effect was tumultuous, causing a slow surge forwards as desperate men and women made a bid for the last ten feet or so.

"SHIELDWALL." The officer blew a silver whistle, stepping back smartly as the interior guardsmen snapped into formation, locking their towers together. "Steady."

With the Interior Guard's attention diverted, Ral hastened through the underside of the barbican, ignoring the shouts of the provost when he realised the stretcher-bearers were running off.

"Y'okay back there, Carillo?" Ral asked, his stomach fluttering.

"Just about shit my pants, Ral."

"Come on, let's find a surgeon and get back out."

Just how packed the fortress –city of Jark was became apparent when Ral and Carillo left the darkness of the barbican and came out into open air. Lining the narrow, zig-zagging streets that were typical of Cadian cities were refugees. Bundles of wheezing rags, coughing from a spreading illness, snored, groaned from lack of sustenance, or simply sat motionless. Not a single patch of ground was bare. This went on, and on, and on through Jark's residential quarter where the majority of the off-worlders were squatting. Lining the acre-wide landing zones where troop transports were sitting, taking off, or landing, litter cases had been left unattended. Trudging past a long line of covered bodies, Ral's knees buckled underneath him when his tired eyes registered how deep the rows went. "Sweet Emperor almighty," he croaked, his hands easing the front-end of Molke's stretcher onto the wet grass.

"Well we got Molke this far. Why don't we keep looking for a surgeon or someone?" Carillo looked like he was on the verge of dropping off. Ral, half-listening to Carillo, realised his head was drooping and caught himself before he could nod off. Rubbing his eyes, Ral noticed a stretcher-party loading litter cases into the troop-bay of a Valkyrie. Were those men the same party they had been following before?

"No surgeon. Come on, one last effort. A quick prayer for the wicked." Ral stretched his aching joints, took hold of the stretcher, and heaved, groaning through his teeth at the lack of feeling in his arms.

Attaching themselves discreetly to the end of the line of medics behind the Valkyrie, Ral and Carillo arranged Molke's stretcher beside the others.

Bristling, one of the Cadian medics noticed the new stretcher case and called out to Ral. "Oi!"

 _Oh, shit_ , Ral gulped, fearing they would be turned away at the last minute and exposed as imposters.

"Give him his tag then." The Cadian indicated the paper tags in plastic seals that were attached to each man, passing one over when Ral paused. "What's his status?"

"Close-range fragmentation blast to the torso," Ral said shakily, scribbling on the tag with a broken pencil. "VSI. Comatose. No morphia injection."

Satisfied by Ral's description, the Cadian left them to their own devices. Carillo breathed freely again. "That shit me up, Ral."

"Yeah," Ral agreed. The novelty of the ruse was starting to wear off. Thoughts of the dire consequences of impersonating men from a different regiment were starting to form in Ral's mind. The quicker they could ditch the Cadian battledress the better. The sole spark of hope that shone through the gathering stormclouds though was Molke's safe departure. Watching the Valkyrie lift off from the ground and into the sky, Ral Bleak recited an old litany, one that ensured safe passage to all servicemen before saying farewell. _Good luck, Molke, you've earned it. All our thoughts are with you._

Ral swallowed as his throat tightened painfully. _You're going home._


	32. Chapter 31

**Highway 1, Cadia Secundus, 15:16**

Barren fields sown with pyramidal fortifications of concrete throttled the four-lane highway into a single narrow chokepoint, bordered by two tall, stepped walls, permitting a total of five men to walk comfortably abreast through the gap, whereupon the road widened, only to converge again thirty yards further on with a second field and chokepoint; further slowing progress.

The amount of traffic that had passed through previously on the journey south to Kasr Kraf was evident by the volume of MT that had been run off the road. Hennus lorries, Wolf staff cars, motorcycles, scout walkers, and some tracks had had their engines wrecked, windscreens broken, and tyres slashed. A few lighter, flimsier cars had been lifted clean off their chassis, falling onto the adjacent concrete blocks where they perched at drunken angles.

Neglected by their owners too were stores of food, guns and ammunition that was simply left in the backs of lorries for anyone to take. At Lieutenant Corta's order, something Lieutenant D'ambrosia frowned at but offered on comment, Cannon Company fell out to loot the abandoned supply train, coming back with sacks of tinned food, lukewarm water containers, spare clothing, magazines and power packs, plastic explosive, and weapons; all of it gleefully acquired from the retreating Cadians who had not managed to find sanctuary in Kasr Jark. Gorging themselves on Cadian compo, Cannon had its first proper meal in four days, albeit one that was taken on the march, and in the wet.

Leaving the double row of blocks behind, the ears of Cannon picked up a change in what they had previously believed to be ongoing artillery barrages landing elsewhere on the continent. These odd, continuous tremors were felt in each man's step as tiny, buzzing vibrations. Only later did it become apparent that the 'earthquakes' were warships falling from orbit. These existed to the Cannons, Siphanis, and civilians as flaming balls of light in the sky that were visible whenever a break occurred in the dense cloudbank. To the disturbance of all, it sounded as if a great many were falling through the atmosphere, and nobody had any idea if they were all Imperial Navy, Chaos, or some of both.

"Lumme, how d'you survive something like that?" a freshly satiated Cannon grunt said to his mate as they watched the spectacle.

"Never leave the ground. That's where my own two feet belong, chum," the other replied, sucking juices off his fingers.

Loping a little way ahead of everyone else, far enough that I was actually walking among civilian stragglers, I squinted in the sunlight at a peculiar construct poking over the hills on the horizon. Corresponding roughly to the same shape as the tank traps, the object climbed up and up until it became lost in the clouds. I figured it for a spire of some sorts.

"That a pylon—" a voice at my shoulder began.

Not recognising it, I butted in. "Don't gimme a lesson. I'm not gonna listen to it."

"Culture's not a thing much appreciated in the Guard, is it?" The journalist, Herle, moved up beside me. Somehow he had appropriated a set of Cadian body armour, presumably liberated from the Cadian stores further back along the road. A beret in LP was perched on his brow, and a Kantrael M-36 was on his shoulder.

Regarding the portly man coldly, I said, "we got our own culture. Zeke does too. Did you see it on display back there?" I jerked my head back at the bullet-riddled wrecks that had disappeared behind the mass of soldiers and civilians.

"Sorry," Herle made a quick aquila on his breast. "I think we got off on the wrong foot. Erm, can I talk to you about this, uh, this rumour that's flying around?"

Shifting the two slings of my slung KA and Castra, I said, keeping my outlook plain and disinterested, "what rumour?"

"Some of the lads think we're being shadowed. Something's ghosting us at night. Private Rhidian's sure he saw someone last night, way out in the fields."

I did not know a Rhidian. "Dunno, could be Zeke."

"If it's Zeke then it's only one person. It may be a sniper looking to zip Mister Corta or that officer of engineers."

Using both hands I took a packet of biscuits from my trouser pocket and opened them. "Have you talked to Mister Corta about it?" I asked.

"Well, I reckoned it wasn't my place to be advising officers. I am more civilian than I am soldier really. Would you mind doing it, Sergeant?" Herle smiled. "Nice of Corta to reissue you your stripes like that."

The flattery I was not keen on, prompting a tepid reply. "I'll check with Mister Corta. You bugger off now, Scribe."

Simon Corta, wearing a waterproof jacket and looking more content than he had been over the past week, was chatting with Lieutenant D'ambrosia who seemed at ease marching beside him. The sapper officer's expression turned slightly sour at my approach as if annoyed at the intrusion into their private conversation.

"Private, this is an officer's discussion," D'ambrosia said, casting a disdainful glance at my irregular attire. "What is that affect you wear underneath your body armour?"

"James Larn is a sergeant in C Company, Leesha," Corta said gently. "I reinstated him two days ago."

"His lack of rank is bothering."

 _I'm right in front of you,_ I thought, keeping my mouth shut.

"Is mine bothering?" Corta met D'ambrosia's eyes after she looked over his bare shoulder tabs. She did not reply. "What is it anyway, Sarn't?"

Falling into step with Corta – I did not want to walk beside D'ambrosia – I said, "sir, be aware that we're being stalked by personnel of unknown quantity. The lads reckon it's a sniper looking out for officers."

Nodding, Corta said to D'ambrosia, "no rank insignia lowers the likelihood of being singled out by them." The bit about saluting Corta left out. Everyone, Cannon and Siphani, completely abided by that rule. It begged as to why the Cadians still insisted on doing it, as well as the open display of bright markings on their armour.

"That all, sir?" I skipped forwards a few steps and began to trot backwards, hoping to flee D'ambrosia's presence as quickly as possible.

"See that hill." Corta pointed at a hill to the right of the highway that looked like a sink with half of it cut away. "Take three men and set up an OP."

Shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun I took in the slopes of bare, crumbling stone, patches of grass and bushes scattered with slowly-sprouting leaves. "Right, sir, will the company be digging in on the opposite side of the hill?"

"No, Sarn't, we're moving on with the civilians. All I want you to do is to keep watch for Zeke on this road. The moment he shows his ugly face, you come running back to us. Tell us if he's got trucks, tracks, tanks, Nathaniel…"

"Nathaniel?" D'ambrosia mouthed.

Not wanting to be the one to explain it – I left Corta to that – I found Aimo and shook his shoulder. "OP detail. We're setting up on that hill there."

"Oh, we diggin' in?" Aimo shifted the weight of his IM stubber on his shoulder. Weighed down with .338 belts stuffed in pouches, Aimo was sweating hard.

"Nah, just us. Company's moving on. I need two others to go up there with us."

"Right, uh, who?"

"Dunno. Might grab Kat and Ral—" I stumbled over my words when I remembered that Ral, Carillo, and Molke were gone. "Kat and…"

"Belisha?"

"No." I did not say it but I did not like Belisha, and I wanted people I could trust with me. "Cyrano maybe."

"Right. We're not gonna need the big guns on this one, so I'll grab a Rekyl. Get some Walloons too." Aimo slunk back to a pair of Cannons who were bearing one of the two Rekyls recovered from the Cadian stores, swapping the unwieldy IM for their piece then scrounging a pair of canvas Walloon carriers off other grunts.

"S'cuse me, Sergeant Larn. I'll go with you." The young Tabor appeared behind Aimo and I wearing a hopeful expression. His youthful voice sounded woefully high-pitched and nervous, I remarked. Of course he had yet to be born so it was a given that he look and sound like a baby. I had been like that too, long ago. To be in the reverse position, the buck sergeant surveying the green rookie was odd.

"Yeah, alright," I heard Aimo say. "Have one of these." He handed Peter one of the mine carriers.

"Sorry, Sergeant." The older Tabor came up and tried to steer his son away. "Shouldn't be volunteering for dangerous jobs like that, Peter."

"No, Dad, I want to go," Peter said, "I'd like some experience."

"Well then we both go."

"I'm not taking dad along too," I sneered. "One o' you bloody come with me or fall back in. Aimo, find Cyrano and bring him 'ere."

"Perhaps I could accompany you gentlemen?" Herle reappeared, the irritating scratch of his pen on notepaper grated in my ears.

"Number ten. I want grunts, not dickless little weans, and the bleeding scribe. Bugger off, the lotta you."

"No. No, I want to learn from Sergeant Larn," Peter said earnestly. "I'm not leaning on you forever, Dad. I've gotta grow up sometime."

"Well…" Woulter looked at his son concernedly.

"That's the spirit, lad," Aimo nodded with approval. "We ain't looking for a contact, Woulter. There'll be no danger. We're having a dekko, that's all."

Before Woulter could make his decision, Peter made it for him. "Let's go, Corporal."

"Number ten-shagging-thousand." I poked a finger at Herle. "We're looking for Zeke. We're not looking for stories that'll get you big credits."

"Heh. I'll behave." Herle laughed.

"If you've written anything 'bout me and you distribute those notes…" I stepped towards Herle and made to snatch the pad. Aimo however moved between us and prevented me from enacting a destruction order on the pages that Herle had no doubt crammed with notes on Cannon and me.

"C'mon, mate, let's bimble a bit over in that direction." Aimo hauled me away by the shoulder through the scattered ranks of Cannon and the Siphanis. "On a bloody timed fuse you are."

"Fuck you, and your family," I muttered, batting aside the hand Aimo offered to me from the other side of the partition separating the highway from the fields.

Unfazed by my casually insulting tone, Aimo helped me over, grinning all the while, which only served to make me madder. "If our friend heard you say that she'd be quite upset."

"Don't you bloody talk about her," I snapped, shoving Aimo back a pace awkwardly; both weapons I carried banging against my sides and each other.

Aimo laughed, recovering immediately from the weak force behind my thrust.

"Go die. You and all Cannon and the bloody Spahis," I raged, kicking at the bare dirt underfoot exasperatedly, throwing a glance back over my shoulder at Peter and Herle, both of whom were vaulting the barrier a little further back.

"Siphanis, mate," Aimo chortled.

"Watch out for mines!" I called back, ignoring Aimo and subtly shifting closer to the narrow bank that separated the highway and the field. I would not have a repeat of last time. It would not do for Izuru to have to come and save me again. I did not want to owe her favours.

"Nah, you've got us to come to your rescue this time," said Aimo, somehow reading my train of thoughts. "Who'd you prefer sweeping you off your feet, Scribe or Peter?"

Shutting my mouth, I bit down on the hot anger that was rising within, concentrating on venting it on the sharply increasing gradient.

* * *

A broad cutting fifty yards wide and thirty deep allowed the masses of foot traffic on the highway to continue through the hill unobstructed. For Aimo, Larn, Herle, and Peter, the path led them up steep slopes with broad indentations gouged into the earth, leaving a chalky residue on their hands. At first the presence of spent shell casings on the slopes did not seem anything out of the ordinary. Aimo kicked a pile of dirty brass with his toecap, picked one up and examined it.

"They're blanks," Herle muttered, flicking a crimped-nose round away.

"I thought they trained with live rounds only." Peter picked through a mess of spent brass, holding rounds between thumb and forefinger.

"Yeah and no." Aimo, a little further on, stooped, placing his Rekyl on its side and plucked the body of an unmistakable live round up. "They put one live round in every such and such quantity of blanks, huh, James?"

A short way ahead, Larn kept his back turned and moved onwards.

"I got one in every thousand," Aimo said, lifting up his Rekyl by its carry handle and following him. Aimo recalled the gruelling Phase One on Nereus where crackshot drill instructors would repeatedly frighten the hundred or so young recruits with their scarily competent marksmanship, and the threat of reducing the ratio of blanks to live if they did not perform up to standard.

"Five hundred 'ere," Larn replied, finally breaking his silence.

"Anyone ever die in Phase One?" Aimo asked.

"Nah. You?"

"Nah."

"It was one in every hundred for us," Peter piped up as he was helping Herle onto a ledge.

"Tough shit," Aimo grunted. "Sounds like a belt-fed cock with sandpaper, your training."

"Oh, no-one died. They said it was an exploding round too," Peter grinned. "I've never seen a hundred lads like me move so fast before. It was scary yeah. But it was exhilarating too."

Grinning back, Aimo gave Peter a thumbs up and turned back to Larn. "He's a grunt in the making, James. Don't give up on him. I see potential."

"I see a future Zeke confirmed kill—"

"Alright, that's enough." All humour had vanished from Aimo's voice, leaving a quiet, serious tone in its place. "You can be a cunt all you want here and now. Just don't be a cunt in a contact, right? There's some lads in old C-for-Cannon who'd like nothing more than to zip you from behind and have your stripes 'cause they think you're a bit of a favourite of Corta's."

Larn eased off his pace and waited for Aimo to catch up. "Favourite? Then how comes Corta had me stripes first time round?"

"I dunno. Maybe Perandis had some leverage in it. I don't think he really likes you either."

Larn stamped on, hurrying away from Aimo. "Good, 'cause I'm not making any more friends."

The lad was hard work. Aimo understood that a patient, understanding manner was what was best for him. Had Nemesis Tessera really changed him that much? Not that Aimo knew what Larn had been like before it though; possibly more like Peter was now?

It took an hour to reach the summit of the hill which Aimo dubbed the Broken Basin. Where the north-facing slope was thick with trees, the crest was remarkably bare, only a few large bushes occupying the cartridge-strewn ground.

"Looks like the Cadians don't police their brass," Aimo gasped, flopping down in a half-buried slit-trench and shoving his Rekyl onto the lip above his head.

"C'mon, lad, get yourself set up in a firing position." Larn sat, tipped the brim of his cover up and wiped his brow. "Find somewhere with a good field of fire and sights on the road."

"Yep, just lemme catch my breath."

"You, daddy's boy, go feed for the corp." Larn gestured at Peter who had brought along some spare Rekyl magazines.

"And me?" Herle had unslung his M-36 and was looking around the hilltop.

"Shut up and find somewhere on the right flank, just past the corporal. Don't bother digging in if you can't find a hole."

Feeling his thudding heartbeat subside to a more comfortable tempo, Aimo climbed out of the slit trench. "Come on, fella, let's find a hole."

To his surprise, Peter had already picked up the Rekyl and was bearing it along with his M-36 and the ammunition he had dutifully thought to bring along. "Leaving me behind, he is." Aimo touched Larn on the shoulder before hastening after Peter.

"Here's good." Twenty yards to Larn's right Peter set the Rekyl down and pointed out towards the highway. "We can see the road, well at least until it starts through the cutting. We've also got a nice field of fire for the gun."

Impressed, Aimo picked up the Rekyl and unfolded its bipod legs. "Okay, good lad."

"I've got two spares here." Peter produced two of the curved steel magazines and made to pass them to Aimo.

"No, no. You hang onto them for now. If we were looking to engage Zeke from this position, you'd be in charge of providing me with ammo. Give it a try now." Aimo braced the Rekyl against his shoulder and whispered, "reload."

"Uhh." Peter hesitated, pondering the Rekyl's strange top mounted magazine.

"Press the catch at the back. That's it." Aimo waited patiently as Peter pulled the magazine free. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Peter nodded.

"Back in now. Front teeth go in first then rock it back."

Peter slotted the magazine into the Rekyl and wiggled it. "There, is that alright?"

"Mmm, should be." Aimo could not see anything wrong with it.

"Why from the top?"

"I dunno. Less chance of a feeding issue I guess. Right, important stuff now." Aimo shifted the gun to the right and planted the bipod legs firmly in the ground. "Tell me how far it is from here to the road. We need to set the sights."

"Err…" Peter faltered, remaining silent before hazarding a guess. "Maybe one-hundred, one-twenty yards."

"Hm, not bad, lad. I have it at just over two-hundred yards."

"Oh. Oh." Peter's face fell. "Sorry, Corporal."

"Don't be sorry. Tell me how to set the sights now."

Peter's eyes rested on the rotating drum attached to the sights. "There's no need."

"Why?"

"Base zeroing is two-hundred." Peter pointed at the number two visible on the drum.

 _Very good, lad_ , Aimo kept his appraisal to a firm nod, not wanting to excite Peter too much. "Right, so your rounds are gonna land downrange more or less exactly where you aim. And you're gonna have an ever easier time because you're firing from an elevated position. Make sure you have height on your side if you're ever get in a contact on your own terms."

"We want contacts on our own terms," Peter said.

"Precisely, Private." Peter had hit the nail exactly on the head there. "We choose our engagements. If we can't then we're out. That's how it works."

"Okay."

"Here's some experience for ya."

"I understand, Corporal."

"Here's some more for you." Aimo pointed at the ground they were sitting on.

Nonplussed, Peter looked around. "But, nothing's happening."

"Exactly. That's what you're gonna be doing most of the time."

"What, just waiting around?"

"Yeah. Ninety per cent of the time this will be all that's going on – absolutely nothing."

"So we're just waiting for Zeke."

"Yep, just sitting and waiting."

"Boring…"

"Hah! We're gonna be doing a lot of this. Unless Zeke starts being aggressive. All we're doing here is watching for Zeke."

"Give my feet a rest…" Peter pulled a booted foot into his hands and began to untie the laces.

"Keep 'em on, lad. We may need to run. You don't wanna be messing with laces if we get incoming mail."

"More experience?"

"Exactly."

After a while of nothing happening, Peter asked, "when are we pulling out?"

"Dunno. It's up to Sarn't Larn. I guess it'll be before nightfall though."

"How… how old is he?" Peter said tentatively.

"He's twenty – twenty this year. Why?"

"Oh. I figured he was young for a sergeancy."

" _Pah_. He had a company on Nemtess. Well, he was corporal then, mind you, only 'cause everyone above him got wasted. Even then it was only about twenty of us."

"Is that why he's…?"

"Lemme tell you a story. We got time here."

Aimo recounted to Peter everything from his first meeting with Larn and Martti, all the way up to Rakka. "So that's the reason why he's a bit grumpy like," he finished, "lost his whole platoon, his best friend too; wasn't even awake to see the latter."

"I didn't think you could become like that. We weren't warned or anything," Peter said quietly. "I'm scared I'll lose my dad. He's not as young as the rest of us."

"He's more worried about you, son."

"Of course he is. It's what dads do, isn't it?"

"My dad never cared. Join up and die for the Emperor. That was it."

"We were promised more than that. Tabor Territorials were fighting for independence from the Imperium, at least before we were sent to Cadia to fight alongside cultists." Peter shuddered at that. "They did in our section. They'd do in anyone."

"Tough shit. You got your dad though, and he's got his head screwed on."

"…Yeah." Peter threw a look over his shoulder at the undergrowth behind them. "Something's out there."

"What?" Aimo picked up Peter's M-36 off the ground and aimed into the bushes. "Did you see? Hear?" he whispered.

"Uhh, I'm not sure." Peter lay down on the ground and listened.

"Zeke?"

"Ssh!"

A faint whistle drifted over to Aimo's ears. "Sarn't's calling us over," he said, taking his Rekyl and handing Peter back his M-36. "Iggery."

Unsurprisingly, for Aimo at least, Larn was not alone, Izuru having crept up on his position. Whether or not Larn had noticed beforehand was another thing.

"Ain't interrupting am I?" Aimo said casually, approaching the stickie from behind who gave no reaction.

"Down 'ere." Larn pointed down at a map he and Izuru were poring over.

"Where d'you get that from?" Aimo asked, setting his Rekyl down and squatting at Larn's shoulder.

Ignoring him, Larn tapped a finger on the curving shape of the hill that they were on. "Right, we got intel on a Zeke motorised column about five klicks north-west of us. They're using Highway Three to move south to outflank us and circumvent the defences in the Korg Mountains."

Aimo glanced at Izuru, who was watching Larn silently. Her head was swathed in a grey scarf, concealing what her absent hood would normally cover. A red burn mark had appeared on her cheek, adding to the considerable number of scars that were there, both fresh and faded, prompting Aimo to wonder where it had come from. He would not have called it a face like smashed spanners though.

"Nathaniel?" Aimo asked, hoping to gauge Izuru's reaction.

"Zeke's got trucks and some tracks. No armour or Nathaniel yet. Be aware there may be strikes from orbit," Larn said.

"Doesn't exactly help our lot, this information, does it?" Aimo tutted.

Tracing the path of the road Zeke occupied, Larn said "any activity on One?"

"Nah, negative contact on Zeke." Aimo broke a twig in his hand and threw the separate halves away. "Not sure he's gonna be rolling hardball where Jark's batteries can stonk him."

"Hm, point, mate," Larn grunted. "Right, we got our Zeke intel. We're pulling out."

"What about our orders?" Aimo frowned at the notion that Larn would disobey Corta's orders so quickly, calling into question the kind of influence that Izuru had over him. Likely it was not all positive.

"I'm not waiting around to get outflanked by Zeke. Once he gets to this crossroads here he can roll eastwards along Highway Four and cut us off entirely," Larn snapped.

A quick look from Izuru made him drop the snide tone, to Aimo's amusement.

"Okay. Alright." Aimo agreed. "Can we uh, can we count on active sniper support from you?" he asked Izuru.

"Sorry, I have a question." Herle got up from where he was scribbling and approached Izuru warily. "What is your name?"

"Sniper," Larn spoke quickly before anyone else could. "Sniper. She don't have a name."

Pursing her lips very slightly, Izuru remained silent.

"Can we count on sniper support from her, James?" Aimo rose when he noticed Larn was on the verge of springing on Herle.

"Oi, Scribe, stop writing." Larn tried to rip the notes from Herle's hands, pulling back and forth with him.

"Oh come on, break it up!" Exasperatedly, Aimo tried to pull the two apart. "Peter, gimme a hand here."

Setting Peter with a fierce glare, Izuru rose to her full height and took hold of Larn and Herle's collars, lifting them up into the air and setting them down apart. "Children. All of you!" she spat viciously. To Larn she added, "you of all should know better."

Hitching her sniper rifle higher on her shoulder, Izuru whirled around and stormed away.

"Fucking stickie," Larn muttered, bundling the map inside his flak jacket. Ignored by him, Herle was standing where Izuru had dropped him looking sheepish and fumbling with a cigarette.

"Go after her." Aimo tugged at Larn's sleeve desperately. "James, we need her."

"I don't need her." Larn turned away, picking up his grenade launcher and stalking off in the opposite direction.

"Bloody wrong, mate." Aimo scrambled after Izuru. "Sniper, ma-am? Larn's sorry. We're having a hard time here…"

Without breaking stride, Izuru said, "no, he is not sorry."

"He – we – would be really grateful if you gave us direct support."

"Does he treat all of his men in the same manner? I do not feel like such manners are worthy of respect."

"Uhh, no, look, we're all in a bit of a pickle right now. We got barred from entering Jark, now we're having to march further south to Kraf. Some Cadians stole our vehicles too. That's why Larn's angry. I promise you, he's not that bad normally. Honestly I reckon you can calm him down."

"It is not my place to placate him." Izuru glared.

"You've got some pull with him though, haven't you? Look, it'd benefit both of us if we worked together directly instead of you skulking about on your own, not being any use to anyone."

"Skulking," Izuru hissed, pausing mid-stride and looming over Aimo.

"Whatever it is you stickies do. Don't pretend you're doing anything else."

" _Kuron_." Izuru's eyes narrowed. "As are all humans."

"Aimo!" Larn reappeared. "Sniper giving you trouble?"

"Nah, none." Aimo stepped back, relieved Larn could take the burden off him.

"This is a private matter."

"Right. Be gentle," Aimo muttered as he passed Larn by.

Pausing when he was out of earshot, Aimo turned and peered through the trees at the two. Short, scrawny Larn, KA at his side and unlit cigarette in his mouth was talking in low tones, his right knee jiggling slightly, his gaze off to one side. Izuru, uncomfortably tall and towering over him, was listening. Several times the argument went back and forth with Larn mouthing _no_ again and again, shaking his head in emphasis. With her face hidden behind her scarf, Aimo could not see what Izuru was saying, only that she kept her body language and gestures to the absolute minimum. When Larn stuck a match Izuru swiftly extinguished the pinprick of flame with her fingertips, provoking a angry, yet subdued reply. _Time, James_ , Aimo strained to see where Peter and Herle were. _Come on, wrap it up_.

An agreement was reached finally with Larn extending a hand, insisting Izuru shake it. By the stiffness it was not something she was used to doing.

"Well?" Aimo asked when Larn jogged up to him.

"That was a private conversation, Aimo," Larn said flatly.

"I didn't hear what was said." Aimo looked at him innocently.

"Nah, still private though."

"We're heading back to the company?"

"Yeah, let's collect Peter and Scribe, and get outta here iggery."

Peter was manning the Rekyl and watching the road through Larn's field glasses at the same time, Herle smoked quietly beside him.

"Anything, Private?" Larn took his glasses and scanned the now empty road.

"Nothing, Sergeant."

"Whack-ho, we're pulling out and rejoining the company."

"Izuru?" Peter blabbed, forgetting Herle was not privy to that information, though if he put two and two together he did not show it. "Is she coming with us?"

"Shadowing us, keeping our rear covered," said Larn. "Aimo, take the Rekyl."

"Right-ho." Aimo heaved his Rekyl up into his arms. "On me, Peter."

"Come on, Scribe, drag your printing press along."

The exchange with Izuru had apparently calmed Larn down enough that he was speaking civilly to Herle, with his previous antagonism forgotten. A positive influence indeed, Aimo remarked, helping Peter upright. "Iggery, lad. Don't forget your bundook."

The march down the south side of the hill was gentle, as opposed to the torrid, sweaty affair of the ascent. With Larn leading, Aimo following on at a short distance, Peter behind him, and Herle at the rear, they made good time. Larn's head was on a swivel, constantly looking around for Zeke or possibly Izuru, who had the uncanny ability to disappear and reappear at will it seemed. However bizarre it was to have a xenos around, Aimo felt content in the notion that she was looking out for them, or at least looking out for Larn and Peter, both of whom she had taken to. There was also the possibility of blundering onto mines, into tripwires, or any other inventive device that the Cadians had left on their training ground. _The whole damn planet's a training ground._

At the base of the hill a new problem arose. In the wake of the Cadian retreat, sappers had begun flooding the fields, hoping to deny Zeke their use and to force them to stick to the roadways. Aimo realised he had blundered into water before he had even left the trees. "Bugger," he muttered, feeling the cold water seep through the thin leather, soaking his socks.

His boots also wet, Larn returned from a short recce ahead and signalled at the others to follow him around to the left, keeping to the foot of the hill so as to minimise the contact with the water. "Proper hoofing job them sappers done on those fields," Aimo said after getting a glimpse of the wide expanse of water through a gap in the trees.

"Yeah, mate," Larn replied absent-mindedly, too intent on searching for mines and the like.

"What d'you think of—"

"Noise discipline, mate," Larn cut in, waving the barrel of his Kazalak around in a gentle arc in front of him. "Watch for ordnance."

Falling back, Aimo waited for the gap between him and Larn to widen before continuing, squelching on through the mud between the slopes and the water's edge, seeing the gentlest of ripples lap against the wet ground.

* * *

 **Bastion 1, Kasr Kraf Inner Perimeter, 16:39**

Laughter echoed throughout the chambers of the concrete blockhouse—turned command post. Expressing his amusement at the apparent jest made by Rear Admiral Oslam Seger – Admiral Quarren's direct subordinate – Major General Alexis Rebbeck stiffened when it became clear Seger was serious. "Come, sir, you really must be having me on."

Seger blinked, wiped his sweating face, and took a drag from a cigar. "Do you believe that choosing to abandon Cadia as opposed to maintaining a permanent foothold is the wisest decision, General?"

"Sir, I have seen nothing but retreating men come past this CP, men who have seen things no decent folk should have to witness. I have orders directly from the lord castellan that say nothing of an extended bridgehead. What I am doing is ensuring that enough men, both from First Guards Division, and from other units, are in a position to evacuate safely to Segmentum Obscurus Naval Base, where they can reform for a future counteroffensive."

"You speak treason. The lord castellan was only supposed to be evacuating support staff. I see this is now a full-scale operation."

"Treason be damned!" Rebbeck spat. "I am saving lives that would otherwise be wasted in pointless, small-scale counterattacks. Primus fell in two weeks. Our Astartes allies refuse to co-operate with us point-blank. The Sisters of Silence are hiding in that shrine in the Korg Mountains, useless to anyone, and our air cover is thinning day by day. Relief has yet to show. I am sorry, Rear Admiral, but there is no alternative."

"Then you shall have to explain yourself to the admiral." Seger rose to his feet and picked up his cap. "He will be most displeased that the Cadians are abandoning their home to Chaos spawn."

"Sir, I have my orders. Any issue you have with them must be taken up with General Creed. I have more practical concerns right now. I would very much like to continue co-operation with the Navy, but I must follow my orders."

"It is a disgrace," Seger said darkly, "that your lord castellan is willing to throw Cadia away to save a few replenishable lives; a disgrace to the Imperial guard, to the Imperium, and to the Emperor himself. Good afternoon, General Rebbeck." With that Seger strode out of the bunker.

"A waste," Rebbeck muttered to his 2IC. "Wouldn't you say, Matt?"

"I rather think the Navy would prefer it to be their show, not ours," Colonel Mattar Tawes said. It did not seem like the naval officers were altogether in touch with the situation on the ground. Admiral Quarren's insistence that the evacuation be a joint effort with both Guard and Navy officers overseeing the embarkation could only confound matters and increase confusion as the Navy attempted to exert control over units they were not authorised to command.

Fuming Rebbeck swiped at his strategic map. Isolated garrisons of troops were springing up all across Cadia Secundus now that the northern sector where I Corps was stationed was collapsing. The Dark Angels company occupying the downed cruiser Sword of Defiance continued to hold out, though it had long been bypassed by Chaos, leaving a tiny island in the darkness. Jark was on the verge of besiegement, as was the Shrine of Saint Morrican in the foothills of the Korg Mountains. Rebbeck's own 1st Guards Division, comprising of 1, 2, and 3 Guards Brigade, were manning the inner perimeter of 17 blockhouses that ringed Kasr Kraf's void shield. An outer line of bastions with a far larger perimeter to cover, stretching all the way around the Elysion Fields, and across the river that cut the city in half were currently being occupied as well; at least the bastions directly north of the city were. Stragglers from I Corps were being ordered to fall out and man the defences. Rebbeck doubted there were enough men to garrison the 57 bastions, each one capable of housing a company up to 150 strong at a time.

"Turn that up, Den, would you?" Rebbeck heard the buzz of the vox inside the adjacent communications room. "Let's hear what they're saying."

"… _All day and all night, the undefeated soldiers of the Imperial Guard have been_ _conducting a glorious fighting retreat in the face of insurmountable odds. Their fellow soldiers of the Emperor are holding a covering line, some distance from the sites of evacuation. This line has become known as the Castellan Line, named after the Commander-In-Chief, Imperial Land Forces: Ursarker Edgar Creed, in honour of his devout, unwavering service to the Imperium. The heathens commanding the Chaos Warbands have claimed, on more than one occasion, that in the face of their pressure the pious and proper guardsmen of the Cadian Shock Regiments flee from them in disorder. This of course is a fantasy, and the fact is that no military operation is as difficult as a retreat, and the embarkation at the end of the retreat requires more skill, more courage, than anything else…"_

"Really?" Rebbeck snorted, rubbing the back of his aching neck. "You hear that, Den?"

"Yes, sir."

"Glorious fighting retreat…" Rebbeck went to one of the shuttered windows and peered out at the endless files of Cadians marching past. Right underneath the window a man promptly fell out and threw up. "Charming." Rebbeck slid the shutter shut and went back to the table. "Can't think what this will have on morale now that word's out we're evacuating everyone. No, sod that, wishful thinking," Rebbeck said to himself. A rearguard would to need keep the bastions manned, at least in the inner perimeter so as to allow the embarkation of as many men as possible. Rebbeck hoped his division would not be given the honour. He wanted to live, not to become some meat puppet for Chaos.

"… _enlightening reports that the Chaos spawn have fallen to infighting. One such assault across the Kolarak Plains saw Chaos tanks turn their guns on one another, saving a unit of valiant Cadian Shock Troopers from corruption and annihilation…"_

"Turn their guns on one another…?" Rebbeck paused, his lighter halfway up to his cigar he clenched inbetween his teeth. "Matt, do you hear that?"

"Only a matter of time before such a conglomerate of unholy filth implodes, sir."

"Do me a favour would you, Matt, and see if you can find any other similarly recorded incidents. I would like to know more of these occurrences."

* * *

 **Highway 1, nine klicks north of Bastion 33, 18:24**

Dusk saw Aimo, Herle, Peter, and I, having rejoined the road, in the wake of the last remnants of the civilians that were lagging behind the main body.

On both flanks were fields recently flooded by engineers that were thick with vehicles driven off the road in previous days and subsequently burnt. Our destination, Kraf, was marked by a thick, oily cloud rising hundreds of feet into the sky. Strangely enough there was a greater volume of fire the closer we got to the city's outskirts. The passage of shells could be heard easily now amid the crumps and sharper detonations, whistling as they hurtled through the air.

"There." I pointed at a grey block that appeared nothing more than a smudge in the distance. "Reckon that's the outer perimeter."

"Let's see." Aimo had a look through my field glasses. "Mate, that bunker's guarding the junction, we're not there yet."

"Uh?" I glassed the bunker again. "Bugger. That massive cloud makes Kraf look closer than it is."

"Those'll be Kraf's promethium tanks," Herle said. "They were bombing Kraf's void shield nightly when I left two weeks ago."

"Reckon it's holding?"

"I don't know, I'm not a techpriest."

"Okay. Spread out, lads," I motioned at the others who were crowding around me. "We're in the open here."

Exchanging my Kazalak for Aimo's Rekyl – we were taking it in turns – I tugged the sling over my shoulder and walked on with it held from the hip.

"Sergeant!" Peter called. "I can see vehicles over on the right."

"Where?" I scooted over to the concrete partition and took cover. "Cover, you lot."

"Shit, that's the Zeke motor column," Aimo exclaimed.

"Hang on." I raised my glasses and scanned the long line of vehicles. At 600 yards away – a very rough estimate – the convoy was rolling at a steady pace eastwards along Highway 5, heading to the same junction we were. The uniform green and khaki camouflage of the Chimeras and Hennus's looked too uniform to be Zeke, to my relief. "They look Cadian."

"Yeah?" Aimo took the glasses I offered him and had a look. "Yeah, they look Cadian."

"Lively now." I took off at a jog. "Let's see if we can paw a lift."

"James…" Aimo still had hold of my field glasses. "James, they're stopping."

"Good-oh."

"I don't like it. Let's take cover." Peter edged backwards.

"Oi, he's traversing!" Aimo cried.

Too far away to make out, I nonetheless saw a tiny puff of smoke and felt a whizz-bang of a passing projectile, only after hearing the cannon-like bang as the report reached my ears.

"TAKE COVER!" Aimo seized Peter and bundled him over to the opposite wall, both landing in the water below. "Scribe, move!"

"Shit, they're our own men!" Herle flung himself over the side. The temperature of the water, when he landed in it, was an even greater shock, prompting a colourful outburst of profanities.

"James, take cover," Aimo screamed at me.

Unused to the heavy weight of the Rekyl I swung it clumsily over the parapet. "Take it, Aimo." Not knowing where he had fallen I accidently clocked him in the face with the muzzle when he leapt up to drag the weapon over.

"Come on, up and over." Aimo gripped my forearm and hauled me across as automatic cannonfire tore up the carriageway around me. Landing in knee-deep water with a loud splash, Aimo and I hugged the sodden earth, clamping our hands over our ears at the bellow of autocannon and bolter fire passing overhead.

"Haven't they had enough yet?" Peter shouted in my ear, trying to burrow inside the earth bank as large fragments of hot concrete, blown outwards by the autocannons, dropped into the water with a hiss of steam.

Several torturous moments later the noise ended abruptly.

"Don't move. Stay still," I said. "Can you hear me? Is everyone alright?"

"Yeah." Aimo thumped me on the shoulder.

"Peter, Herle. Are you okay?"

"Fine, Sergeant."

"I'm okay," Herle coughed. "Need some new trousers but…"

"Stay down." Cautiously I crept up the side of the thoroughly perforated concrete partition and had a peek. The Cadian convoy was still stationary with their batteries trained on us. A thin cloud of white dirt now covered the highway, the recently level surface a churned-up mess.

"They wise up?" Aimo said.

"Dunno. I'm gonna have a dekko." I threw my leg up onto the wall. "Stay here."

"Careful, James."

"Yeah, careful," I said to myself, treading forwards, my clothing sopping wet. Somebody with authority in the column seemingly had a brain, and had called a ceasefire when it became clear we were not hostile. The random shooting, aggravating as it was, only got under my skin properly when the lead vehicle, a track, began to roll away with nary an apology issued to us.

 _Oh, no you're not buggering off, are you?_ Dismayed and appalled at the Cadian conduct I gathered my breath and hurled a considerable length of single and two-syllable words at the departing vehicles, screaming myself hoarse, and throwing bits of road in their direction.

"James, James, they're gone." Aimo ran up behind and caught me by the arm. "Save it. Don't matter now. We're alright."

Shaking free of Aimo, I stamped around, kicking little bits of smoking asphalt with my feet.

"Are you finished?" Aimo thrust my wet KA at me. "James, take the bloody rifle or I'm gonna throw it away."

Grasping the wet wood I flicked the safety off and made to aim at the tail-end of the Cadian vehicles, the last one turning onto the junction to head south.

"Don't!" Aimo grabbed the barrel and shoved it upwards, instantly apologising afterwards. "Shouldn't have taken hold of your weapon like that, sorry."

"What was I saying to them?" Panting, I bent nearly double, at a loss for words. "Can't remember."

"Doesn't matter, pal." Aimo helped me stand up straight. "Doesn't matter."

Herle came up, bringing a frightened Peter with him. "I'll be talking this one down, that's for damn sure."

"Yeah, show those prima donna bastards up." Aimo wiped dirty water from his eyes. "C'mon, let's keep moving, keep warm."

Weighed down by our wet clothes and heavy flak jackets, we made the 600 yards down to the junction and then the blockhouse beyond it. With the light fading fast we fancied shoring up for the night, or at least long enough for us to clean our weapons and let our uniforms dry out.

"No-one's home," I called out, sweeping the small bunker with rifle raised. "Get inside, get warm, get dry." Stepping back I allowed Aimo, Herle, and Peter to file in. "Right, who's the least wet?"

Bemused glances were exchanged. All of us had taken a dousing in the chilly water.

"I'm good for now," said Aimo, shrugging.

"Okay, set up your firing position in the western firing slit once you've seen to your weapon. That's where Zeke's gonna come from. Peter, hand Aimo your spare magazines. Once you're dried out enough I want you up there ready to give him ammo; clear?"

"Erm, what can I do?" Herle asked, ringing water from his beret.

"You just sit. Wait, d'you know how to field strip an M-36?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm qualified on the Kantrael. I—I could take Peter's too." Herle pointed at Peter's dripping lasgun.

"Yep, make yourself useful. Strip 'em both and give 'em a rub down, nice and gentle like."

"And you?" Herle took off his flak jacket and set to work.

"Same." I dumped my own body armour and shrugged off my sodden webbing. "You keep my glasses dry, Aimo?"

"'Bout the only thing I got dry on me, mate." Aimo passed my officer's glasses to Peter, who handed them back to me. "Nice bit o' buckshee kit you got there."

"It's Zeke property, not ours." I unloaded and quickly field stripped my Kazalak to dry the pieces out. "Anything out there, Aimo?"

"Nothing yet."

"Why not get yourself an M-36, Sergeant?" Herle eyed the stripped rifle with disdain. You wouldn't have to worry about getting it wet."

"Nah, this thing will work fine when wet, I'm worried about the insides staying wet and rusting." I had no desire to get into an argument with the other about the ups and downs of an autogun and a lasgun. "You've got yours, I've got mine. Let's leave it at that."

"Hmph, how civil of you, Sergeant. Y'know I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier. I'm sorry for butting in on your personal affairs. Can we start afresh?" Herle extended his hand. "Joe."

"James." I shook Herle's hand and nodded. It was also not the time for petty disagreements hampering our co-operation. I hoped I appeared professional and in control. I certainly did not feel like I was.

"His first name's Arvin," Aimo grinned over his shoulder.

"Huh." Herle snorted. "Well now."

"Get back on stag, scumbag," I shot. "Peter, get down here and sort your stuff out. Try and dry your boots, same with you, Joe."

With my weapons seen to I decided to risk it and began to untie my bootlaces. The unexpected reappearance of Izuru however put a stop to it. Bursting into the darkened blockhouse, making Peter and Herle start in alarm, Izuru exclaimed that there were Chaos vehicles approaching.

"Why do you hide? Why do you skulk in here? The enemy is coming." She flew across to Peter and pulled him to his feet, pausing when she felt the dampness in his clothes.

"Blue-on-blue incident earlier," I said, working to retie my laces. "We had to take cover in the field. Got a soaking."

"Up, get up." Izuru let go of Peter and dragged me up instead. "If you do not do something right now, the enemy shall pass this bunker unopposed and be free to wreak havoc upon the refugees."

"Alright, alright." I faltered under her fierce glare. "Uhh, Aimo, where are those mines?"

"I've got one, Peter's got the other." Aimo passed his mine carrier over. "Go on, Peter."

"Do you need any help?" Peter asked when he handed his mine bag to me.

"Nah, you stay here now. Get ready to feed for Aimo. Joe, back Aimo up. Don't show yourselves until the Walloons go off, then give Zeke everything you've got."

Gathering my rifle and grenade launcher I tapped Izuru on the arm and said, "Sniper, outside."

"I would have words with you," Izuru said softly once we were alone.

"Yeah, not now though, we're about to get contact. I want to show you how to work these." I passed Izuru one of the mine carriers and led her along the edge of the road leading west. When satisfied we were at a safe distance from the blockhouse, I lay prone and indicated she was to do the same. "Okay, I'll show you quick." I opened the mine bag and produced the mine, clacker, and firing wire with blasting cap attached. "Mine goes with the writing facing Zeke," I said, spreading the Walloon's legs and shoving it firmly into the soft earth at the edge of the road. "Simple. Now unscrew this plug on the right here, see?" I worked a cap off the Walloon's body and showed Izuru.

Listening closely, Izuru nodded. Vehicles could be heard in the distance. Anticipating that my trembling hands would fluff the process she touched my wrist. "Be calm. Breathe slowly."

"Right, uh, put the end of your blasting wire into the priming adaptor like this." I pressed one end of the wire into the open slot and screwed the adaptor back into place. "Right, other end now." I uncoiled the blasting wire and pressed the other end into the socket. "This is armed."

"The clacker?" Izuru eyed the firing device in my hand.

"Safety is here." I showed her a little bale that prevented the trigger from depressing. "Flip it off and then press the trigger several times to detonate the mine. Does that make sense?"

"Yes." Izuru nodded firmly. "I understand."

"Unroll the wire and get to a safe distance before detonation –hang on, wait."

"Yes?" Izuru was poised, ready to set the mine up on the other side of the road.

"What does Zeke have: tanks, trucks, bikes?"

"One of your Chimeras leads the column. The rest appeared to be nothing more than soft-skins."

"Okay, uh, wait for the track to roll past then pop the mines on the first truck. We'll assault the track together from both flanks."

"But Aimo. By assaulting the Chimera we will be within his line of fire." Izuru looked back at the blockhouse with worry.

"No time to reposition. Get your ordnance set up – move."

The clatter of steel tracks, loud even over the roar of many vehicle engines, signalled the approach of the armoured vanguard. Pressed against the ground as low as I could go, I watched the bellowing bulk of the lead track roll unconcernedly towards the blockhouse. The silhouette of the vehicle commander standing tall in his cupola was visible against the pink-tinged night sky. Following behind were unarmoured troop carriers, Hennus's and other lorries, each packed with unsuspecting Zeke grunts.

Bringing the clacker in front of my face, I flipped the bale down and waited for the first lorry to come within my Walloon's field of fire. The moisture on my hands was gone, replaced with warm sweat. The chill that had made me shiver previously had disappeared. _You'd better be ready, Izuru._

Sucking air through my clenched teeth, I squeezed the trigger. Nothing. Pressing again, harder this time, I was half-dazed by the ear-splitting explosion –more of a colossal thud – that boxed my ears, briefly cutting out my hearing. My sight too was obscured by a thick grey cloud of dust.

While the noise had shocked me, it must've seemed like the very ground had leapt up and dashed itself at Zeke in a thick flurry of 1/8-inch-diameter steel balls. Perforating the first two lorries in the column, both open-topped affairs, and smashing their windscreens, the fusillade also pierced both lorries' underslung fuel tanks and set them alight.

Inside the Chimera the driver braked sharply, bringing the track to a sharp halt. Ducking down in the cupola, the commander twisted around, gaping in shock at the sudden violence behind him.

"Go, Aimo, go," I hissed, wondering why Aimo's Rekyl had not opened up. Barely a half-second late, the bark of the Rekyl dragged the track commander's attention back to his direct front. Using the general pandemonium as cover to scoot over to the Chimera's flank, I dug my boot into stowage and hauled myself aboard.

With bursts from the Rekyl whizzing closeby, and the immolating lorries behind, I clumsily unslung my KA and aimed at the track commander who had one arm up and was fumbling for the edge of his hatch. A rather foolish move on his behalf but he forsook trying to close his hatch and went for his shoulder holster when he realised he was being boarded. Half-squeezing my KA's trigger I jerked the muzzle away when Izuru rose up behind the Zeke. Grabbing him by the back of his helmet, Izuru rammed the man face forward into one of the sharp-edged vision blocks, cracking his visor and breaking teeth into pieces.

"Grenade!" I tore the pin from a frag – an effort normally requiring a considerable application of force to do so – effortlessly, and dropped it into the turret after the stunned Zeke. Just as Izuru slammed the hatch and took cover against the turret, panicked screams rose from inside.

The muted boom saw no further cries from the Chimera's interior.

High-pitched squeals rose from the Zekes as they leapt from the lorries down into the water to douse their flaming clothes. Shattered into a thousand pieces, the glass fragments from the windscreen were now embedded into the occupants of the lorry, many of them still alive and aware. Smoke poured across the field, obscuring the confused enemy that had been out of the Walloon's killing zone. Believing the ambush to be coming from all sides, Zeke opened up to his left and right, raking the empty fields with lasgun and tracerfire.

"Go!" I cried, aiming my Castra at the Zekes behind the track and laying a round of high explosive into their midst, further sowing confusion. "Go, go, go!"

Rather than take off back to the blockhouse on her own, Izuru waited for me, beckoning anxiously.

"Get going, Izuru!" I swung downwards on the barrel of the track's autocannon, kicking off from the sloping bow and landing at a run.

"Let us not outstay our welcome."

"After you." I waved at her to get going, annoyed she had not taken of immediately. It was a struggle to keep up with Izuru as we hared back along the road. Zeke was still lighting up the fields on his flanks with only a token burst or two sent in our direction.

"Drop pods in the sky!" Izuru drew her Arowana off her back and aimed skywards at several thin streaks of white light that were falling from orbit.

Not having factored an assault from above, I paused to look up at the specks. It was impossible to gauge where they would land, they were falling so fast. A memory of Marines in blue power armour and tall yellow crests on their helmets surfaced.

 _Thousand Sons_.

"How far can you run flat-out?" Izuru asked, forcefully dragging me along as I was standing still; the lights being almost hypnotic. "I ask because if we do not fly we shall all be killed."

"I dunno," I replied breathlessly. The adrenalin was starting to wear off. "Not far with equipment."

"Dispose of it."

"Yeah, hold on, we don't know who's in them, or where they're landing."

Rushing back inside the blockhouse, I found the air was thick with dust and propellant. Brass casings littered the floor beneath the Rekyl Aimo was manning. Beside him Herle and Peter still had their Kantrael's aimed at the burning lorries.

"We're not out the shit yet, lads." I dumped the empty cartridge from my Castra and slipped another HE in. "We've got drop pods coming in right now, so we're outta here, iggery."

"What, who's in them?" Aimo's grimy face turned white. "Ours or theirs?"

"Don't know. But we need to move south, most ricky-tick."

"Yes, Sergeant." Peter, taking the Rekyl's remaining two magazines with him, hastened from the blockhouse.

"Scribe, move! Look lively," I barked. "Sniper, what do you see?"

"The drop pods are falling many kilometres to the north," Izuru replied from the blockhouse roof.

"Better be ours." Aimo coughed in the dusty air and followed me outside.

"Good shooting there, mate." I grinned. "Wasted Zeke good an' proper."

"Oi." Aimo, where he had been following me, stopped and turned. Izuru had remained on top of the blockhouse. "Iz—er, Sniper?"

From her perch, Izuru adopted her sniping stance. "Fly. I will let nothing past."

"She's only got the one rifle," Aimo protested.

"Nah, she'll be alright." I pulled at Aimo. "Let's go, on the double, Corporal."

I counted the individual reports of the Arowana, each one distinctive, following our hurried trot down the derelict-strewn highway. I guessed the rifle held no more than ten or twelve rounds, but the last shot I heard, from very far away, I counted as only the sixth.

"She's not out of ammo, is she?" I stopped and listened. "She can't be…"

"James, she's buying us time." Aimo pulled up from his jog and looked back at me. "Come on."

"Naw, there was a repetition going. Didn't you hear?" I took off my rifle and grenade launcher and held them both out to Aimo. "Gimme the Rekyl, I'm going back."

"Number ten, mate." Despite his reluctance Aimo exchanged his stubber for my gear. "Something really wrong 'bout all this, y'know; helping a stickie."

"Yeah, can't seem to get rid of her. Need your ammo too."

"Two mags, all I got left." Aimo squeezed his spare magazines into my empty binocular case. "Can I keep your field glasses?"

"Not bloody likely. Bugger off, Aimo."

* * *

Shoving away the nagging feeling that I was making a grave error I headed back up the highway, grumbling inwardly when it began to rain. A curious silence had settled on the fields that were so recently witness to the Zeke mad minute. Nothing of the Arowana was heard, nor was there any return fire. No tracer arced across the sky in bright streaks of light. The two burning lorries, little balls of flickering orange fire remained where they had been halted by the Walloons. So intent on hunting for Izuru I only narrowly avoided blundering into a Zeke patrol which marched directly past where I was hiding underneath the chassis of a Hennus. After counting their numbers, ten, I found my way back to the blockhouse.

" _Sniper!_ " I called as softly as possible. " _Izuru?_ "

Scrabbling at the smooth wall, managing to scale it after a few attempts, I swept the roof with my hand but found only shell casings. _Where are you?_ An acute panic was threatening to take hold. No body lay on the roof, the ground was clear around the blockhouse, as was the interior.

Realising how big a fool I had been, I fled back down the road, curbing my pace when I was well clear of the blockhouse. Curiously the gap down the centre of the road was bereft of Zeke, with no indication where the foot patrol had gone. _Now Zeke's vanishing at will too?_ I thought nervously, pushing the Rekyl's carry handle down to allow me to fire the stubber from the hip whilst moving.

Deciding to not take the more direct route straight down the road I veered off to the side, sliding through a gap between a pair of burnt-out lorries, intending to continue south along the bank that was just above the waterline. This turned out to be a terrible miscalculation on my behalf.

Finding my way obstructed by the Zeke patrol, whose strength had somehow tripled, I froze. The Zeke nearest to me, hugging the grassy bank, up to his ankles in water, twisted round and saw me standing over him with the Rekyl, raising his hands in surrender. Whether it was the darkness that gave me a menacing appearance, or simple surprise, I was flabbergasted that this enemy soldier was openly offering his surrender. The effect was spontaneous as the other Zekes, quickly cottoning onto their comrade's discovery, slowly put their hands up as well rather than calling for me to throw down my weapon. For a fraction of a second I hesitated, wondering what I should do. An unfamiliar voice called out from the other side of the road. There were more Zekes in the opposite ditch, I realised. Retreat now was impossible. If I stopped to take prisoners, I might be shot or overpowered by the men on the other side of the road. If I tried to walk through the Zekes in my path, they might seize the opportunity to overpower me. Deciding I valued my life and liberty over any moral objection, I opened fire. Clamping my finger down on the Rekyl's trigger, I cut a straight path through the Zekes, killing and wounding as many as possible to persuade the others to leave my way clear; emptying the full magazine. The Zekes my bullets missed either cowered against the bank or scattered further into the field, some even trying to swim away. This left me the chance to run.

For the second time that night, Zeke's most forward units were thrown into disarray. Responding aggressively to the uninterrupted burst of automatic gunfire, the other Zeke unit opened up, pouring staccato bursts of autogun and lasfire in all directions, pitching grenades into the field at phantoms.

Leaving the water behind me thick with blood I crashed through a section of canvas roof torn from the frame of a Hennus, colliding with whom I believed was a Zeke that had managed to scramble to safety. With my blood up I swung the 25 pounds of steel and wood around, meaning to bludgeon him, but a sharp grip on the buttstock halted my swing. Eyes wide underneath her scarf, Izuru yanked back her knife from its downwards thrust, releasing her hold on the Rekyl and taking me by the shoulder. A sharp thrust from her propelled me onwards.

Escaping the chaos unfolding, I clutched at a stitch in my side, gasping, "came back 'cause you ran out of ammo."

"Abandoning common sense at the roadside along the way," Izuru replied harshly, casting behind her as panic fire from Zeke whipped past. She did not seem in the least bit out of breath, acting aloof.

"Thanks, pal, you're a real grunt comin' back for me like that," I retorted, fitting a fresh magazine into the Rekyl, flustered at her ingratitude.

"Pal?"

"Uh, mate." I waved off her the oddly curious look she gave me.

"…Mate." Izuru slowed, raised a hand, and listened. "The enemy come again."

"Where?" I flopped down beside the twisted body of an overturned Wolf and set the Rekyl's bipod legs down. It would be a fighting retreat then.

"No." Izuru breathed, wrenching at me to fall back. "Fly. Fly!"

In the settled aftermath of the second Zeke mad minute, a low rumble arose from the north. A Chimera's searchlight flickered on and began sweeping the area ahead in a wide arc, rapidly augmented as other bright beams added to the lightshow, until the entire horizon became one long line of probing searchlights. The background groan rose sharply to a multi-layered roar as amphibious vehicles powered through the water and tracks with bulldozers shunted a passage through the long line of motor transport.

Dropping all thoughts of the fighting retreat, I ran for my life. Dashing down the highway I followed Izuru as she chose a route that left the asphalt, forcing us to splash through fields and ditches.

A collective drumroll of automatic cannonfire, the noise punctuating through my body, opened up Zeke's offensive . It was like a million hornets were all shooting past my ears, making a truly frightful sound that was just as much felt as it was heard and seen; the bright lances of tracers cracking overhead, travelling straight for a distance before gently arcing downwards. No less impressive was the response issued by the Imperial defenders who matched Zeke's autocannon barrage with their own, even invigorating it with judicious application of mortars and artillery; a resolute reply, even for an army in retreat.

Ears complaining at the cacophony of lead filling the air I hopped over a ditch and ploughed into a river after Izuru, lifting the Rekyl above me to keep it dry. The river, as it turned out, was actually a canal I had mistaken in the dark. With my strength faltering, I let the Rekyl fall and dragged it through the water, cursing Izuru for leading me on. The curses ended when I was up to my chin and struggling to push forward on tiptoes. "Izuru! Help me," I gurgled.

"Let it go," Izuru, not even up to her shoulders, leant back and took hold of my arm. She meant for me to drop the Rekyl. Stubbornly I clung onto it, not willing to let go.

"I can't—" Water ran down my throat, making me splutter. "I can't swim."

Pushing off from the bottom, Izuru towed me through the deepest part of the canal, where even she was hard-pressed to keep her head above the surface. With only the top of my cover bobbing behind her, I was underwater entirely and blind.

"I can't see," I wailed once my head was clear. With both of my hands full I could not wipe my eyes and was resigned to letting Izuru guide me like a blind man. "Throne, that's cold."

"We are underneath a crossing. Hush now or we will be discovered," Izuru murmured.

Pressing herself against the stone support, Izuru manoeuvred me in front of her and placed both of her hands on my shoulders. "The gun." She took the Rekyl from my numb hands and lifted it up onto a narrow shelf cut into the support, placing it beside her Arowana. "Caution, the soil underfoot can be slippery."

I shifted my feet, feeling the soil give way and slope downwards. Another step forward and I would be up to my eyes; I was already up to my neck.

"Dispose of this weight." Izuru pressed on the shoulders of my flak jacket.

Begrudgingly I admitted the ten-pound body armour was weighing me down and unzipped it, shrugging it off in the water. With only the thin sniper smock and my shirt underneath I started to shiver violently, even moreso than before.

The ominous rattle of approaching armour grew closer and closer, shaking dust and dirt from the bridge's girders. Halting directly above our heads, I heard the Chimera's engine recede. Suddenly my shaky breathing was loud. "Quiet." Izuru crossed her arms across my chest and held me. Her light breathing, ticklish in my ear, had increased. Forcing my chattering teeth together I peered up at the space above where the track had halted. A loud clunk of boots on the steel surface made me twitch, sending a ripple across the water. I listened as the Zeke paced up and down, unsure of what he was doing. When the footsteps ended at the rail, I held my breath, swallowing a murmur of fear.

The dropped grenade gave a loud _plop_ when it broke the surface. Pivoting away from the blast, Izuru turned her back to it, shielding me as the watery thud jarred our bodies in the water. Keeping one arm around me Izuru held her other hand over my mouth, stifling my sobs.

The second grenade was dropped on the other side of the bridge, pelting us with spray, but going off harmlessly. I was not sure how much it had hurt Izuru to take the brunt of the concussive force, as she shielded me again.

No other grenades fell after, the Zeke having become tired of searching for the ghosts that had given his cohorts so much trouble. Izuru and I were not to get off lightly however, for the track stayed on the bridge, sometimes exchanging fire with the unseen Imperials. Forced to remain as still as possible in the freezing cold canal, we waited.


	33. Chapter 32

"Wake up, Larn."

Awakening in a state of confusion, my boggled mind tried to grasp at where I was and why I was up to my neck in water, or why there was a strange pressure against my shoulders, or why two arms were wrapped around my chest. In my forgetfulness I jerked my head back, feeling the back of my cover connect with bone.

" _Khaine_ ," Izuru grunted in a slightly more nasal tone than usual.

"W-where am I?" I wriggled against the tight embrace Izuru had me in. "I can't see."

"Shush. The enemy," Izuru whispered.

Fear from the unseen Zekes on the bridge above returned, gripping me in its ice-cold pincers. _Are they still there?_

"I can't – I can't feel anything," I quivered. Everything below the surface had gone; I was a head without arms, legs, or body. Terrified at the dangers of exposure, I hunched my shoulders and tried to lift myself further up out of the water, at least to give me room to tilt my head up and down without accidentally receiving a mouthful.

Pressing harder, so much that it felt like Izuru was striving to squeeze the air out of my lungs, she worked up and down, rubbing my arms and shoulders to restore some warmth, even if it was only a temporary measure.

Neck aching from the ceramite weighing my head down, I popped the clasp and let Izuru take it off, exposing sweaty, greasy hair that smelt of a grunt weeks overdue a wash. Lowering my cover, Izuru let it fall once it was underneath the water, being careful not to cause too many ripples on the surface lest Zeke took notice and dropped more grenades.

Eyes roving across the bridge's underbelly, I shrunk when the clang of multiple pairs of footsteps sent vibrations through the steel supports, disturbing the water around me. If only the Zekes spoke out aloud then they would become actual living beings, rather than simply exist as disembodied noises that only suggested human presence. As it was, the unseen threat of the enemy encouraged my fear to mount, increasing tenfold. What I could not see provoked a broad streak of inexplicable anxiety, making me wish to be discovered, just as long as it would cut the tension and end the nerve-wracking game of hide-and-seek I had become an unwilling participant of.

As if sensing it, Izuru rested a hand above my heart, feeling the _thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud_ beating faster than the chatter of a Lecta. " _Stay thy troubled soul. Let it know peace_ ," Izuru murmured. Instantly the wrought-up stress evaporated, draining all ailments from my body, and providing a fleeting warmth.

"I can't." I shook my head, wanting to throw in the towel. "Bloody freezing. I've had enough."

"You will not." Izuru retained her firm grasp, lifting me up from the riverbed to prevent an attempt at surrender. "Treat you well, they will not."

The mechanical whine from the Chimera's turret cut off my embittered reply. Elsewhere along the edge of the canal, other tracks had rolled to a halt, each of their searchlights dipping down to sweep the river, exposing the calm water to ghostly grey light. Vaguely human forms stood sentinel behind the arc of the beams, watching for anything that broke the mirror-like surface, fingers hovering around triggers.

Following the full rotation, the track's main battery resumed delivering unseen cannonfire in the Imperial's direction, on this occurrence receiving no return volley of tracer, not even when the entire front opened up with their 20-millimetre autocannons and bolters in a bold effort to get the defenders to reveal their positions. A flamer mounted on a Hellhound ignited with a whoosh, spitting a thin stream that arced up and down the canal, coating it in burning promethium.

Feeling the _thump-thump-thump_ repetition of the 20-millimetre make a punching bag of my body, I tried to cover my ears, only narrowly avoiding jabbing Izuru's face with my fingertips, for which I received a disgruntled _hmph_ in return.

A metallic impact on the track above us, drowning out the incessant banging of the autocannon, made me jump in fright. Silencing the track's battery, whatever had hit it then followed up with another almighty _clang_ of rending armour plate. Fearful of moving in case any of the enemy tracks spotted us, Izuru and I remained still, listening to the tearing groan. Then, as abruptly as it began, the shrieking ended. All we could hear now was the sound of the crackling flames, and our own shaky breathing. Swallowing, I held my breath, waiting for the shooting to start.

The surface of the canal was broken by a falling object, hurling up a great tidal wave. Lifted up from the bridge by an unknown force, the track plummeted back down, slamming into the promethium slick, spraying the burning substance in all directions. Engulfed in the surge of water, Izuru's hold of me was broken, ripping us apart and uprooting us from our hiding place. Tumbling over onto my back, I opened my mouth to scream, receiving a mouthful of scummy water that left me choking and flailing my arms, blindly struggling for purchase. Helpless, I opened my eyes, crying out for Izuru, only managing a garbled _mmph_. Muffled explosions sent grievous vibrations through the water; augmented so much it was painful to hear. Thrashing about I slapped my hands tight over my ears, a howl of agony escaping my mouth.

Kicking weakly I snatched at the surface above my head, feeling my fingers break the waves. Coming up for air, I found the firing line of tracks had dissolved, with all lying on their sides or beginning to cook off from the inside. Wiping my eyes I made for the south side of the canal, trying to feebly swim whilst weighed down with my boots, clothing and sidearm. When my hands found the concrete wall I pulled myself up onto the narrow ledge and remained half-in, half-out of the canal, gasping for breath, unconcerned at why the Zeke armour were flaming wrecks. After searching up and down I found a set of steel rungs built into the wall and climbed up to the level of the bridge, working my way forwards on my belly parallel to the road.

A harsh whistle blast punctuated the aftermath of the destruction of the tracks. It was immediately followed by the thud of running feet of many Zekes along the road. Lying a stone's throw away, I pried open my damp holster and drew the Moses, ejecting the magazine and clearing the chamber, locking the slide rearwards then blowing into the bore to clear any trapped water. Shaking the water from the magazine, I reinserted the ejected round and slotted the load back in. At the _snick_ of the weapon chambering, painfully loud to my ears, the nearest Zekes froze.

The piercing beam of a torch shone across the plain, blinding me as it settled on where I lay. The Zeke's discovery of me sent everyone shouting loudly as they stormed into the field towards me.

 _Fight or flight?_ I gripped the Moses in both hands, hesitating under the glare.

"CONTACT!" The bark was not warning the Zekes of my presence though. It came from the orb of green light that materialised amongst them. Eschewing apprehending me, the Zekes launched volley after volley of panicked lasfire at the strange ball which shimmered under the weight of the fire, but showed no signs of cracking. Instead it burst, revealing a humanoid figure in a scaled cape and what looked like bones made of metal for armour. The thing whipped a staff with a glowing orb on the end around, firing what could only be described as beams of energy at the Zekes; blasting bodies into nothing and leaving only tattered rags as remains. Alarmed at this alien appearance, I remained rooted, my puny stub pistol silent, for all the good it would do, praying for the alien not to notice me.

No sooner had the thing finished with the Zekes, leaving only smoking remains behind, it ghosted down from the road, gliding over to me with transparent intentions.

"Surrender," I pleaded, laying my weapon down and raising my hands. Enshrouded in darkness, the armoured alien's staff glowed, illuminating its face for a brief instance. Shockingly the face was human yet its body was firmly installed within the scaled armour. At the sight of the thing's face, my mouth turned dry, for it was a face I recognised, and one I had hoped to not see ever again.

"…Kora?"

No recognition crossed the Kora-thing's face. With a flourish of her staff she popped out of existence, leaving a faintish green glow behind. Hesitantly reaching forwards to touch the light, I felt the air crackle, buzzing around my fingertips. The havoc caused on the other side of the canal, was it her doing?

Remembering the mortal danger I was in, I picked myself up and staggered over to the road, aghast at the piles of singed clothing that had only just before been men. A rustle of movement across in the opposite field brought me swinging round, jerking my Moses up, half-pressing the trigger.

"Did you see it?" Izuru called.

The barrel of my pistol trembled. In near-shock from the cold, my mind askew, I could not decide whether the voice was friendly.

"Did you see it?" Izuru rose, bearing both the Rekyl and her Arowana.

"Uhh." Brushing my forehead with the Moses' muzzle, I mumbled an incomprehensible reply.

"Did you see it?" Izuru yanked my wrist down when she saw I was pointing the Moses at my head.

"Y-yeah." I stared at the burning tracks, still dripping from head to foot.

"Shock." Izuru passed the Rekyl to me. "Bear your arms now."

With my propensity for clear thought diminishing I dumbly followed behind Izuru across the plain. The sappers had not yet managed to flood the fields south of the canal, much to my relief. I was the wettest I had ever been and felt like I was slowly freezing.

"Hurry, or suffer the same fate as those men!" Izuru hissed threateningly, having to drag me along now.

"I can't," I groaned. "Can't go on."

"Walk for yourself. I shall not carry you like before."

A deadweight, I marched on, shoulders slumped, head drooping, oblivious to my surroundings. Only when I bumped into Izuru's raised hand did I realise she had spotted something ahead that I had not. "Freeze."

Twin staccato bursts of automatic gunfire lashed out from a hidden strongpoint, buried inside a long, low mound. Izuru gave a slight _oomph_ and keeled over sideways. Throwing in the towel, I dropped my Rekyl and raised my hands, crying out I wished to surrender.

"Izuru?" I nudged the prone stickie with my knee. "You alright?"

"I am fine," Izuru replied with apparent unconcern. "Lie down and stay still."

A groan of hinges and a door was thrown open on the roadside of the mound. "James, that you?" a voice called.

"Lively." Izuru tugged my arm and limped over to the beckoning Aimo.

"Sorry 'bout that. We wasn't sure you were Zeke," Aimo said, stepping aside to allow us entry. "Didn't zip you by accident, did we?"

"No cause for concern," Izuru said flatly, still having to haul my lame carcass along.

"What the bloody hell you been up to then, James?" Aimo pinched my soggy sleeve between his thumb and forefinger.

"A course in swimming – now, have you a source of warmth. We are both somewhat chilled." Izuru spoke for me.

"Uh, yeah, right down at the end there. Go past the two gunports then down the stairs. I'll show you." Aimo led us along a narrow corridor stocked with ammunition boxes and spare barrels on one side, and two short passages that led to square firing slits cut in the stone on the other. Both firing positions were manned by Rekyl teams, their weapons mounted on tripods. From the outside the bunker would look like little more like an oddly-shaped mound to any attackers that might try and make use of the road. Clattering down a short flight of steps Aimo scattered a group of men in front of him. "Right, someone fix up two wet ones, and find me a towel too. Come on, chop-chop!" It was a somewhat spacious but still utilitarian underground chamber, holding bunks for a section's worth of men, a single stove, and a miniscule side-room that doubled as a toilet.

"Dad, Sarn't's back," Peter Leurbach exclaimed, leaping up from a cot and rushing over to us, though apparently more worried about Izuru than I.

"He's soaked through!" Woulter cannily scooped a rusty portable heater from the stove and planted it next to a vacant cot in the corner. "Corporal, do we have a towel?"

"Don't know." Aimo was rooting through a pair of storage bins bolted to the wall. "Just seeing what the Cadians have left us. Come on, you lot, stop fucking the donkey and give us a hand here."

Engrossed in a game that was spread out on the floor the others, Kat, Cyrano, Draino, and Belisha, hurriedly stuffed the dog-eared cards and the chips into a sack.

"'Ang on, who's this giant?" Belisha exchanged a perplexed look with Draino, neither having met Izuru before.

"Don't you worry your OR's cotton socks," Aimo said cheerfully. "She's a mercenary. Fought with us on Nemtess."

"Naw, bollocks."

"Belisha…" Cyrano swept the bulging sack into his hands and rose up to tower over Belisha. "You weren't there."

"Sorry." Belisha, outraged, looked to Draino for support. "Just why was you allowing a _stickie_ to fight with you? She's fucking enemy!"

"I dunno, Elisha, s'pose it ain't outta the question them xenos mercs knocking up with us for a bit o' beer tokens." Draino scratched his head in puzzlement. "She any good in a contact, Corp?"

"She's a sniper, pretty good I hear." Aimo, coming forth with a woollen, guard-issue blanket, wrapped it around my shoulders and guided me over to the cot. "'Bout time you and Elisha had a switch-up. Pull Arrigo and Colvin off the guns and send 'em down here."

"Corp, it's one in the morning," Belisha groaned.

"Exactly. Three hours, you two. Don't nod off now."

"Are you maintaining a permanent foothold here?" Izuru, still kneeling beside me, asked.

Wiping his hands down his trousers, Aimo worked the knob on the tiny stove and set a battered kettle straight. "Heh, not likely, Sniper. We're s'posed to pull out at dawn and ditty-bop south to the outer perimeter. One of them bastions is where the rest of the company is, we're just playing rear-guard detail here."

"It appears a foreign force just saved your skins," Izuru remarked casually. "We, Larn and I, we forced to hide underneath a canal bridge up to our necks in water for two hours. The threat of discovery was high, for a force of light armour had lined the north bank, and they seemed determined to root us out; never mind the danger posed by your guns."

"Pfft. Rekyls ain't gonna do much against light armour," Aimo snorted. "Some heavy automatic cannons firing from the perimeter, that's what spooked Zeke into a mad minute."

"And then a being cloaked in green light decimated – annihilated – the enemy vehicles and infantry. Alas, I only saw the creature from behind. It appeared to have eyes only for the enemy."

With the whistle of the kettle, Aimo poured the water into a tin mug and waited for it to brew. "Well, anything wasting Zeke's as good enough a battle-buddy for us." Aimo brought the mug over, passing it to Izuru when she insisted. "Is that heater working?"

"Marginally." Izuru looked down her nose at the rusty old thing. "How dilapidated."

"Aw, we know. Your stuff's better than ours," Aimo tutted, "Got a nice cup o' char here, pal, you want it?"

"Char?" Izuru mouthed.

"Yeah, nice wet one."

Flummoxed, Izuru made to hand the brew to me. Acting without thought, I knocked the mug violently away, tugging the blanket tighter around me and moving further into the corner.

"Right, you leave him be now, Sniper," Aimo said nonchalantly, scooping up the empty mug and taking it away. "He needs to unwind. A little rattled. Woulter, make some more tea, would you?"

"No." Izuru, unfazed, took one of my boots into her hands and began untying the laces. "Have you any spare clothing?"

"Cadians didn't leave us any spares, no." Aimo picked up the wet Rekyl, took it over to his cot, and began taking it apart. "Actually, that's a good idea. Vest and grollies, mate, don't want to catch cold." He grinned. "I'm on hand if you need me."

"He is a good friend to you," Izuru murmured, wiggling my boot off and placing it beside the chugging heater.

"Um, the slaughterhouse," I began, plaintively working at the laces of my other boot, overcome with embarrassment at the attention.

"Slaughterhouse?"

Continuing in a whisper, so as Aimo did not overhear, I said, "I saw you in the slaughterhouse on Nemtess, other places too. Why? You were real, you were there, taking my boots off, washing my feet…"

A curious frown came upon Izuru's face. "You certainly did not see me. I have no memory of those places, unless… cast your mind back, did Saarania connect with you mentally?"

"What?" Bemused, I thought back to Grendel, remembering those frightening purple eyes, and the spike of ice that plunged into my mind. "She was… she was looking for the little ones. She wanted to kill you too."

"I see," Izuru said unsurprised. "Such mental anomalies are not commonplace."

"Am I corrupted?"

"No, no you are not." Izuru smiled encouragingly. "You should not worry."

"Then why the nightmares – what d'you want, Peter?" I noticed Peter was leaning over from his bunk and listening to us.

"I've had them too," Peter said frankly, "Dad, we're all getting them, aren't we?"

"I'm afraid the taint of Chaos is slowly corrupting this planet," Woulter said grimly, bringing a fresh brew over. "We saw it on Cadia Primus. It now creeps its way south, an unstoppable tide that cannot be halted by any means conventional."

"Ta." I took the mug and sipped. Seeing Izuru over the brim, I touched her arm affectionately. "Sorry. I'm being a right daft sod at the moment."

"Apology accepted." Izuru's face twitched, and she inadvertently reached down to her right ankle.

"Better get the boot off. See what the damage is," I said gently.

Retiring to the adjacent bunk, Izuru worked at the clasps of her boot, her one remaining item of her stickie garb, and stretched her leg out.

"Might have to have a word with Arrigo or Colvin about that," Aimo, his Rekyl in pieces in front of him, said.

"They'd just call it a near-confirmed kill." Kat laughed. "Still, piss-poor marksmanship that. D'you get hit, Larn?"

I shook my head and continued to sip my tea.

"Do you expect to remain with us, my friend?" Cyrano, uprooting from his bunk, made over to Izuru. "I do not believe our officers will be sympathetic to a being not of human blood. I mean no offence but it is fact."

"We'll just say she's a merc." Aimo shrugged. "There must've been times in the past where xenos mercs were hired to fight for us; just like what Draino said. If she wears something that covers her ears then she can pass for human at a glance."

"She don't look much like them other stickies that was on the ship," Kat muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

"I am mingled-race. A half-caste sired by unknown devices," Izuru announced, keeping her gaze level, and the shame from her voice.

Not a person spoke. I alone was aware of her dubious origins.

"Is that possible?" Aimo's fingers had frozen over wiping the Rekyl.

"No. In all my studies I have never come across an instance where such a union occurred. We differ substantially DNA-wise. It is quite impossible. The thought of it is degrading." With that Izuru drew her knife and worked the bullet fragment out from where it was lodged just above her ankle.

"Does it matter?" I asked.

Izuru looked across at me, pausing in her self-surgery.

"Well, I mean does it matter you don't know who your parents were? Lots of lads don't have parents, there's only the Guard for them. The Guard are they're parents, and they're alright with that."

Dropping the twisted fragment onto the bunk, Izuru spoke softly, determinedly, "I _must_ know."

"My condolences, Izuru, my mother died when I was a boy. You are not alone in wanting a parent," Cyrano said consolingly. "Each of us here has known loss. It is an everyday occurrence in the Imperial Guard, as I'm sure it is with the Craftworld Eldar."

"A Craftworld Eldar I am no longer, rather a far-flung outcast of bastard heritage, with nothing to my name."

"Here." I passed the blanket over to Izuru. "You look cold."

"I can sustain myself. The same cannot be said for you." Izuru dutifully threw it back to me.

Tugging off my trousers, smock, socks and shirt, I was left sitting in my shorts and vest. "Where's my piece? My Whupper?" I asked Aimo after he picked up my clothes and hung them up to dry.

"Somewhere 'round here, mate."

"My field glasses." I felt for my officer's binocular case dangling underneath my compass pouch, finding it empty. This however may have been for the better as it was my only belonging that had remained dry as it was still in Aimo's possession.

"Got those too, don't worry. Hang your webbing up as well, let it dry out."

"Mmm, okay."

"You feeling better?"

"Yeah, a little." I lifted my legs up onto the cot and stretched out.

"That's it, get some kip. Not had a proper snooze in days, have you?"

"Nah." Resting an arm across my forehead, I yawned deeply. Ballbagged was how I would have described my present state. That is, utterly knackered.

"Please," Izuru's voice floated down to me.

"Uh?" I pulled my forearm back and saw her standing over me.

Falling to her knees, Izuru clasped my hand. "Please allow me permission to screen your mind."

On the verge of giving my approval, I then began to wonder about her. "What about you?"

"Concern yourself not with my wellbeing. I am here for you."

"Is it only one person?" I watched the boy Peter. "Give him a good night's sleep. He's fifteen for god's sake. I'm an old shit."

Touching my forehead with the back of her hand to assess my temperature, Izuru politely declined.

"I know them Tabors were with you before Rakka. Peter likes you. Go help him."

Giving a subtle shake of her head, Izuru whispered, "sleep in peace."

* * *

Regrettably my night was undisturbed, with only the soft notes of a flute awakening me many hours later. Spread out on the bunk, the towel now covering me up, I sat half-upright and squinted at the flute player who was perched on a cot on the opposite side of the chamber. Playing on for another minute, the player, a man I did not recognise carefully and lovingly wiped down his instrument and stowed it back in its case.

"Bravo, Private," Aimo said from his cot. "Nice little tinkle that was."

"Who wrote it?" Belisha, his stag having passed sometime in the duration I was asleep, rested in his cot, his head in one hand.

"Bark," the private said quietly.

"Never heard of him."

With the others taking it in turns to jab verbally at the quiet musician I looked over at Izuru. She was still awake, sitting up straight and alert, the pieces of her Arowana arranged neatly beside her for cleaning.

"Can't sleep?" Her silence prompted me to further ask, "do you sleep?"

"Now and again, but you would never see me. Rangers are taught never to lower our guard, even around supposed allies," Izuru said, her voice a scant whisper. "Do not be naïve, for there are those among your company who would see me dead in a heartbeat." Glancing at me, Izuru added, "such an ignominious departure would be most unbefitting. Were the means and the place factors I could dictate then I would be readily accepting. No, dying in bed is not the fate I choose."

"No-one's gonna hurt you here."

"Were that true I would happily curl up and let sleep embrace me." Izuru reassembled her Arowana and laid it against the steel post at the head of the cot.

"Aimo, Peter, Woulter. They're not bad people, they'll vouch for you." I caught Aimo's eye and nodded. He winked back.

"Your thoughts troubling you?" I spied my Kazalak, Castra, and field glasses somebody had thoughtfully propped at the foot of my cot and shuffled across the bedsheet to take them. "Keladi?"

"A wound grows in my heart," Izuru said grimly. "Nearer we draw, the more the blood will be spilled."

Touching the casing of the heater with my toe, I gave a slight " _oh._ " It was still fairly warm. "If Keladi's gonna be anywhere, it'll be at Kraf."

"You were of the same mind with Kasr Jark." Izuru unzipped her Zeke assault vest, stained with both water and blood, and left it at her feet. "How can you know?"

"Kraf's the capital o' the continent. It's where we were held after we landed on Cadia. There's an airbase there."

"A possible point of egress for Keladi and I then." Izuru twisted her left arm around to look at where her sleeve had been torn. "Kaela, I long to leave this repugnant world."

"Is Kaela your god?" I asked, curious at the strange names Izuru had spoken before.

Spreading her sodden LP jacket on the cot above, Izuru gave a short sigh. "Kaela Mensha Khaine."

"What?" I stared at her dumbly.

"Yours is but one, ours are – were – many," Izuru said patiently, biting through the packet of a dressing and perching on the edge of my cot to dress the wound. "That which whom I speak of is my God of War, whom I pray to before battle."

"How many gods have you got then? Us lot just got the one." I leant forwards, intrigued.

Crossing her hands in her lap, Izuru's tone became almost wistful. "Many, and many more forgotten still, deities whose names we no longer speak and consider their worship to be taboo."

"But you do, don't you? You pray to Kaela."

"Well, I am not regarded as observing traditional values in our society."

"Nah, not when you give offerings of your hair you're not," I poked gently.

"My hair?" Izuru frowned.

I noticed Peter stealing quick peeks at Izuru. "Don't stare, Peter, ain't polite."

"Go to sleep, Peter," Woulter said.

"You shaved your head and put paint on your face. I thought it was some stickie war ritual."

"The markings were so my enemies knew that I was a warrior with loyalty to Alaitoc, the craftworld where I grew up, wed, and sired offspring."

"But I thought Ulfway…"

"I have never counted Ulthwé as my home. Alaitoc I shall always remember fondly as the place where I was truly happy. Now, forget this talk of gods and craftworlds. You must sleep and be ready for the challenges on the morrow."

I shook my head. "Can't sleep now."

"Arrigo can play you to sleep, how 'bout that?" Aimo smirked.

"Nah, give over." I reached over to pry my Castra away when Izuru picked it up and began toying with the leaf sight. "Nothin' doing."

"Were you one of my own I would sit you down for four hours a day and teach you a finer form of expression. Forget this commoner's tongue you speak in…"

"Be hard work that." I shoved my Castra and KA onto the mattress above, out of Izuru's reach. "I'm a slow learner."

"I am a very patient tutor." I heard a slight emphasis on the very there, as if Izuru was fixated on proving her point.

"Still have your work cut out."

"So certain?" Izuru rested her chin in her hand and pursed her lips.

Leaning back I smiled as I closed my eyes. "Mmm, doss down, stickie."

Shaking his timepiece, Aimo tapped the luminous digits to set them right: 05:24. Half of the bars that made up the individual numbers had faded from view, meaning the display was difficult to read accurately.

Leaning on the white-painted stone beside the Rekyl Cyrano was manning, Aimo produced a cigarette from one of his packets and offered one, to which Cyrano politely declined. "Naw, suit yourself." Aimo blew smoke. "See anything, Kat?"

From the second firing position, Kat replied, "no, is it dawn yet?"

"Heh, be patient, Kat. We just gotta hold on a little longer." Continuing in a mutter, Aimo said to Cyrano, "course the further we go back, the more likely we're gonna run into meatheads; can't be seen to be running from combat, even if we are under orders to do so."

Nodding in agreement, Cyrano said "I've no worry about provosts. Only way they can catch you is if they're on a horse. Not a single horse or wild animal on Cadia." His fingers pattered against the Rekyl's body. "I dare say there is nought right with that."

"No, only soldiers here, mate." Aimo bent over the gun's barrel and peered through the opening. "Hang on…" he glimpsed figures in the early morning mist.

"Glasses?"

"Gave 'em back to James." Aimo went downstairs briskly and over to Larn's webbing which was still drying, hung from the head of his cot. Larn himself was fast asleep. It was a curious thing seeing Izuru resolutely remaining awake throughout the night, when sleep would have been the wiser choice; some odd aversion to being observed whilst asleep perhaps? Aimo could not know.

"Your brisk pace is troubling," Izuru sat up straight from where she had been resting her head against the bunk post. That she was beginning to doze off did not fly over Aimo's head.

"I need your glasses again, mate." Aimo took the officer's binoculars from the cot above. "Give 'em back shortly."

"Zeke?" Izuru seized her jacket and began to button it up.

"Could be. Wake him up, would you?" Aimo nodded at Larn. "Might need to pull outta her fast."

"Zeke?" Draino stirred.

"Someone say Zeke?" Belisha sprang out of his cot, his bare feet slapping on the floor.

"You are standing." Izuru pointed out.

"Hunh, I think he'd rather it was you that woke him up rather than any of us. You motivate him, that's why." Aimo drew away quickly when Izuru rose and assumed her towering posture.

"I do not motivate," Izuru shot back angrily.

Aimo was already halfway up the steps. "See anything else?" he called to Kat.

His eyes to the Rekyl's sights, Kat said, "uhh, dunno, some shapes moving around."

"Cyrano?"

"Your eyes are younger than mine, Corporal."

The first sighting of Zeke in the days since the destruction of Rakka presented something of an anti-climax. Appearing out of the mist, Aimo saw around 120 men – a company-sized unit – standing around in the open with helmets off and shovels in hands. Not a man among them was carrying a rifle, all having been issued digging equipment to construct trenches. A party of NCOs and an officer had their heads together, consulting a map whilst a Zeke wearing a cooking pot on his back staggered around delivering a hot breakfast to his cohorts.

Astonished, Aimo lowered the glasses then had another look. "Bloody hell, they don't know we're here!"

" _Kakova…"_ Cyrano's eyes widened when he had a look through the glasses. "Kat, do you see?"

"What? Are we engaging?"

"Give 'em something to think about over breakfast." Aimo glassed the Zekes again. "How far d'you reckon that is?"

"Six-hundred yards, give or take." Cyrano twisted his Rekyl's sight dial and pushed his safety switch to 'repetition'.

"Kat, you look, tell me how far." Aimo passed him the glasses and waited for Kat's word.

"Six-fifty," Kat replied.

"Right, both guns, seven-hundred."

Both Kat and Cyrano worked their weapons' folding charging handles backwards then forwards and set their sights for the range.

"Fire!"

Booming drumrolls reverberated around the inside of the bunker, tearing savagely at Aimo's ears. Watching from Cyrano's shoulder, Aimo felt a grim satisfaction when both initial ranging bursts riddled the unaware Zekes, dropping many and making the rest leave their tools and scatter.

"Good shooting, lads that was bang on," Aimo said between follow-up bursts.

"New magazine." Kat threw out his empty magazine and slotted in a new one, quickly resuming firing on Zeke.

"Reload." Cyrano, more conservative with his ammunition, did the same a moment later.

"Corp, what's happening?" Belisha and Draino, both helmetless, came hurtling up the steps, equipment belt halves dangling by their sides.

"We're out of 'ere in ten minutes, you two. Grab those ammunition boxes and start carting 'em down to the track, iggery." To the Rekyl gunners, Aimo said, "anytime Zeke sticks his head up, give him a burst."

"Oi, don't leave without us!" Kat cried.

"Not even you, Kat." Aimo leapt down the steps two at a time, narrowly avoiding hitting Arrigo and Colvin who were on their way up to see what was happening. "You two load the ammunition into the track as well, most kosh!"

Roused gently by Izuru, I awoke to see an ugly burn mark on her cheek. "What you done to your face?"

"Did you think me idle during my time out there?" Izuru snapped, passing me my mostly-dry socks and trousers. "An idle body leads to an idle mind, a lax mind, one that softens with the passing of time."

Sharp chatters from the two guns upstairs made me pause in pulling on my trousers.

"With haste." Izuru gestured at me to hurry up.

"That Zeke?" I asked Aimo when he appeared.

"Daft sods were digging in, didn't even have rifles." Aimo passed me a cigarette when he went by. "Here, that'll wake you up. Sniper, I need your rifle covering north—"

"She's out of ammo, Aimo."

"Hmph, fine, if you both muck in with Peter and Woulter we can get the track loaded and be on our way."

"Track?" I stuck Aimo's cigarette in my mouth but was flummoxed for a lighter.

Izuru seized the cigarette between two fingers and, to my chagrin, threw it away, saying, "never in my presence."

Knowing it was pointless arguing with her, I finished pulling on my damp clothes. "Where's this track then, Woulter?"

"There's a hatch over there in the floor in the corner. It leads down to a garage. There's an artillery tow there for us to use."

"Gracious of the Cadians…" Draino remarked when he came through with Belisha, both men taking ammunition and spare barrels over to the hatch and leaving them there for later trips down the ladder.

Following the others' example I began to ferry ammunition down from the upper floor. "You coming with us then?" Izuru had not made a move to help, her idleness noted by Belisha and Draino; both regarding her with thinly-screened enmity.

"Don't get cold feet now, we promised we'd vouch for you. Our officer's a good sort. I'm sure he wouldn't mind a merc giving support to the company."

"And the other alternative?" Izuru passed me my Kazalak and grenade launcher from off the top bunk.

"Well, none, you're gonna have to show yourself if you want in to Kraf. Better to not have to sneak about everywhere, eh? If you're with us then you'll be alright. I promise," I said sincerely.

"What d'you promise?" Aimo had come back. By the way he was wiggling his fingers in his ears; the gunfire had slightly affected his hearing.

"Izuru's sticking with us for now. It's safer for her." I smiled at Izuru's loss over what to say.

"Right-ho, you'll have to introduce yourself so Mister Corta when we reach the perimeter then." Aimo bent over and dumped his compliment of ammunition beside the hatch. "Elisha, Draino, Arrigo, Colvin, let's start getting this down to the track."

Off-handedly I said, "look at him, he's a better sarn't than I am."

"You are fast on the mend, Larn. I foresee you will be the better of the two in short stead." Izuru smiled back warmly. "Take charge now. You are the sergeant."

"What's that now?" Aimo slapped at his ear.

Tapping Aimo on the arm, I made it clear that I was taking charge again, having recuperated enough from the previous night. "I'll have those glasses back as well, mate, cheers."

The Rekyl gunners had reduced their rate of fire to a short burst every now and again to keep the enemy's heads down. Small piles of brass cluttered the floor by Kat and Cyrano's feet, tinkling whenever posture was adjusted. Thin wisps of smoke rose from the Rekyl's barrels as they waited for any Zekes foolish enough to poke their heads up.

"What were you engaging?" I swept the ground where the Zekes had been trying to dig in. "Just Zekes?"

"Yeah, just Zeke." Kat tapped his Rekyl's barrel lightly. "Ooh, that's getting hot."

"Change your barrel then, Kat. Cyrano, cover him."

"What were you expecting if not Zeke?" Cyrano asked.

"We saw drop pods last night. Could've been Marines making a landing." I refrained from voicing my worries about getting into a contact with Nathaniel. We had nothing to engage him with. Rifle rounds would do nought but tickle his armoured hide.

Aimo's announcement that our transport was loaded elicited a cheered reaction from Kat. "Number one, let's go."

"Any more activity?" Aimo snatched a peep through my glasses.

"Nah, Zeke's gone to ground, we're clear. Kat, Cyrano, bring the guns along with us. Leave the tripods."

Passing the Rekyls down into outstretched arms, Aimo, Kat, and Cyrano climbed through the hatch and down the ladder; the grumble of an engine in idle rising upwards.

"Easy now." I lowered both of my weapons by their slings, glancing up and realising Izuru had yet to adjourn to the motor pool. "Come on, Izuru, down you go."

Approaching the hatch in an almost wary manner, Izuru knelt and peered down into the darkness. "How narrow is the passage?"

"I dunno, I haven't been down there yet."

"Narrow spaces make me nervous."

"Not so perfect after all."

"I never pretended to be perfect; just better than all of you." Izuru looked at me agitatedly.

"Go on. I'll be down right after you." I snorted at the streak of arrogance Izuru still bore.

"I did not mean it in that way," Izuru muttered, her head disappearing from view down the ladder.

Following her down, I pulled the hatch shut and bolted it securely.

The MT the Cadians had left us was a small, tracked vehicle with an open-topped compartment split into three sections for the driver, gunner, and passengers. Finding all three were full I was resigned to perching on the flank and clinging on, Izuru being made to do the same.

"We all here?" Aimo called from the driver's seat.

"Yeah, go." I waved at him impatiently. "Hang on, Sniper."

Winding her scarf around her head, Izuru tucked the ends into her vest and found handholds to cling onto. A small shake of her head conveyed her rather dim opinion of the limited space our transport offered. I caught sight of it and nodded, nearly losing my purchase when Aimo touched the accelerator a little too enthusiastically, making the tow leap forwards at the slowly widening crack of light.

* * *

 **Bastion 33, 06:06**

Simon Corta was heartened to hear the rearguard were returning and would shortly be through the gate. Given a 2200 yard-long perimeter to cover with a little over 100 men – normally the role of a 4-500 man battalion – Corta knew that even a small handful of extra troops would be of great assistance when Zeke began probing.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant, I've just had a look at the track's occupants, and there's a discrepancy in the number of men riding in it." Staff Sergeant Perandis had taken note of the rearguard's strength before it had separated from the company, but found there had been an odd increase in manpower.

"How great a discrepancy?" 2nd Lieutenant D'ambrosia, examining the holo map of the surrounding area beside Corta, asked.

"Let's see, shall we?" Corta went over to the viewing slit built into the wall and raised the armoured shutter. "Could be a prisoner they grabbed."

"I'd rather we forsook acquiring prisoners, Simon, we are on half-rations as it is."

"Not even that." Corta raised his glasses and focused on the overladen track. "Yeah, they're pretty heaving there."

"Sir, can I bring your attention to the individual riding on the right." Perandis tried to point past Corta. "That one's not a company member."

"So you're right," Corta said mildly. "Well spotted."

"Should we not act on your staff sergeant's discovery?" D'ambrosia said after taking a look through her own glasses. "It could be a Zeke spy. We can't just let anyone through the gate."

"Well…"

"He's armed, sir, it could be a trap," Perandis warned.

"So are Sarn't Larn and the others." Corta lowered the shutter and turned away. "When they debus make sure Larn comes up here first and gives us his report. I want to see that other man too, find out who he is."

Within the minute of the rearguard's boots hitting the floor, Perandis announced that Larn was waiting outside the company headquarters.

"Thank you, Sarn't, send him in," said Corta.

Larn's scruffiness had increased substantially Corta noted when the young man came in and stood to attention before him and D'ambrosia. His cover was absent, as was his issued body armour. Still in his possession too was the peculiar camouflaged, hooded smock and that Zeke rifle that had nearly landed him in trouble with the political officer. He appeared to have officer's webbing on as well, going by the compass and binocular pouch on his hip. In any other situation Corta would have had Perandis give him a proper bollocking for his dress code. Now thought was not the time.

"Sir, Sergeant Larn reporting to the company commander as ordered, sir," Larn said.

"Well, let's have it, Sarn't." Corta clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed Larn patiently. D'ambrosia, off to one side, had fixed Larn with a hard stare. Discipline would have been meted out much more readily had she been in command, Corta thought.

"Have what?"

"Be forthcoming with your report, Sergeant." D'ambrosia glared. "Don't waste our time."

Refusing to look D'ambrosia in the eye, Larn's attention remained on Corta. He was a quietly insubordinate type, Corta remarked, with little time for any bullshit. Under another officer it might have dropped him in hot water. Corta wondered if in the past it had.

"Any contact with Zeke, Sarn't?"

"Two contacts, sir," Larn grunted. "Both on our terms."

"Show me where." Corta swept the map with his hand, widening the three-dimensional image to the area north of the perimeter.

"Bit fancier 'an normal, sir." Larn looked a little baffled by the advanced tech.

"Thank the Cadians for that, Sarn't. We're replacing a unit from Second Guards Brigade."

"What we covering the Cadians again?" Larn sneered. "Their tracks bloody shot at us they did."

"Friendly fire is not an uncommon occurrence, Sarn't." Corta exchanged a glance with D'ambrosia.

"We hit a Zeke motor column coming in on Highway Three, stopped 'em dead." Larn jabbed a finger at the road that snaked around the foothills of the Korg Mountains.

"With what?" D'ambrosia looked over at him, disbelieving his story.

"Pair o' Walloons, Lieutenant," Larn replied coolly.

"So Zeke has control of Highway Three now?" Corta cut in, fearing D'ambrosia would take it the wrong way.

"Yeah, right about that." Larn nodded, absent-mindedly scratching the stubble on his chin. "Everything north of us Zeke has now. You woulda seen 'em sooner – well I mean they're tracks would be right over the horizon now, only their vanguard got wasted by something last night"

"How d'you know, were you there?" Corta magnified the picture.

"Hid underneath a canal bridge that one o' their tracks was sitting on. They set the river on fire trying to flush me out. Didn't work."

Larn had delivered his report so far in the same bored, lacklustre tone of voice, Corta realised. "And the other tracks?"

"Wasted. We didn't get contact that time, sir. I sent the other ahead of me."

"And this was last night?"

"Yeah, sir, second contact we had from a bunker this morning. Caught Zeke digging in and wasted him good and proper; never got a chance to fire back. I pulled the men out and we withdrew in good order."

"Casualties?" Corta flipped open his lighter and lit up, passing it to D'ambrosia, who declined.

"None, sir. Zeke got seven shades knocked outta him: one track, two truckloads of infantry, a Zeke platoon, and suspected severely bruised egos, sir."

"Ha, very good, Sarn't." Corta laughed at Larn's bone-dry humour, impressed with his performance. D'ambrosia did not.

"And your passenger?" Perandis pointed out. "The extra man you picked up along the way."

"Ah, yes, our mysterious addition. Who is he, Larn? Why is he now riding with you?" Corta felt his mood rise despite the less than stellar situation his company was in.

"Not who you're gonna be expecting, sir, just to warn you." Larn had come a little sheepish all of a sudden. Was it guilt in his voice now?

"Right, well I want to know who he is and if he can be trusted. Is he waiting outside, Perandis?"

Perandis had a look out into the narrow corridor. "Yes, he is. I don't think it's a—"

"Send him in."

Obediently Larn stepped aside to allow a tall figure to take his place. The mismatched camouflaged pieces the stranger was wearing intrigued Corta. This was no soldier of any Imperial Guard regiment. Both the olive grey assault vest, which bore bloodstains, and the baggy trousers were not standard issue. Most curiously the latter was identical in pattern to Larn's non-regulation jacket. _A mercenary?_ Corta wondered.

"Take off that rag at once." D'ambrosia's voice was quietly condescending. "Show your face."

Inbetween the narrow gap the stranger had left to see, a pair of yellowy – more golden – eyes flickered between Corta and D'ambrosia before settling on the former. _Strange eyes, inhuman almost._ Corta felt a distinct discomfort underneath their gaze, as if he was being read like a book, with the stranger's mind picking apart pieces of his life as a normal man would lick a finger to turn the pages.

Reaching up to lower the scarf from where it covered his face, the stranger revealed his – her – face. _A woman_ , Corta thought, astonished at the reveal. Underneath the concealment was a scarred face – more starkly handsome than attractive, Corta would have put it. The weathering, though slightly dulling the woman's looks, did not tarnish the strong chin and nose she bore or the confidence in her expression.

"And your name is?"

"Sniper," the woman spoke in clear, unaccented Gothic, enough that it was difficult to try and pinpoint her heritage.

"You are a sniper?" Corta glanced at Perandis, the latter folding his arms and glaring at the woman. "What – what unit are you with? I don't recognise your battledress."

"Mercenary. And who are you?" The strange woman blinked.

"No. Let's begin with where you are from first. We're not in the business of admitting complete strangers into our midst. I would like to know how you fell into Sergeant Larn's company."

"Sir—" Larn began.

"Let the merc speak, Sarn't," Corta cut him off.

"Our interests are shared, Lieutenant," the mercenary said. "Neither of us has any love for the hordes of Chaos. Co-operation would be most beneficial, both to me and to your command."

"Why should we accept your help? And why do you believe I am a lieutenant?" Corta did not wear rank insignia, contrary to regulations. D'ambrosia did, so why did the mercenary not automatically assume that she was in command. _A female misogynist perhaps?_ Corta had known women in the past who were distrustful of men, but never one that outright hated for another of her sex to be in a position of authority over men and women.

"You are too young for a captaincy, lieutenant, and I do not regard you as being subordinate to the officer of dark complexion."

D'ambrosia stiffened at that. Larn glanced up at the mercenary nervously and looked like he had words on the tip of his tongue.

"Yes, yes, very well, mercenary, I assume you and Sergeant Larn have been acquainted longer than I have been aware so… Sarn't Larn, I want you to take charge of the mercenary. Don't let her out of your sight – keep her on a short leash I mean."

"Lieutenant, how can we possibly know whether this soldier of coin has not been treating with our enemies?" D'ambrosia stepped in before Corta could dismiss Larn and the mercenary. "How can we know unless she has been properly debriefed in full on the situation?"

"We would have to know the full situation first, Lieutenant," Corta pointed out, "which we don't. Our orders are to hold this section of the perimeter, indefinitely if we must."

"I have concerns for the safety of my men and women if this bright-eyed mercenary harbours treachery." D'ambrosia's eyes were steely. "One foot out of line and—"

"The provosts will be called, Lieutenant. We are still an army and law must still be followed." Corta waved Larn out. "That's all, Sarn't, be off with you now."

Before Perandis could show Larn out, the young man blurted. "Sir, sir, can I recommend the sniper be posted on the roof of this building, and that the roof be placed out of bounds to the company. Just so none of our lads get distracted from their tasks, sir."

"Yeah, that's fine, Sarn't. Return the sniper's weapon and remain on OP with her once your admin is seen to."

"Right, sir." Larn nodded at the mercenary and followed her outside into the corridor."

"Be cautious with that one, Simon," D'ambrosia said once Perandis had taken his leave. "I do not like her face. I say this as a professional. Those bright eyes are shrewd, and hold many secrets."

"I know, Leesha." Corta took a chair and sat. "Larn's capable. Perandis is on hand to take over if anything arises."

"Yes, but I would rather our worries are directed to our front, not our rear as well. I would have placed her under arrest, Simon, and sent her back for interrogation immediately."

"Your concerns are noted. Zeke's the bigger threat now, Leesha. We'll be seeing him very soon. Category-A troops, I'll warrant, for cracking this line."

"They shall not break the Voynuk Siphanis, Simon. We stand."

"Yes, Cannon will stand too." Corta eyed the frightfully long section of perimeter wall the 100 men were supposed to cover. "By the Throne, we'll stand and die if we have to."

* * *

"Up here, Sniper." I led Izuru up the stairs and out onto the roof of the bastion. When satisfied there was no one else occupying the space, I said, "you think they bought it?"

"Your officer appeared to be at a loss for what to make of me." Izuru knelt beside a v-shaped opening that acted as a firing slit. "The woman I do not like."

"Okay, you'll be up here. This is your firing position. The roof's out of bounds to anyone else, so you shouldn't be disturbed."

"And how am I to defend this position without ammunition?" Izuru raised a quizzical eyebrow. "I seek a special type of calibre for the Arowana, one you do not stock."

"Nah, forget the Arowana, I've got something better." I patted my thigh. "I think you'll like it."

"Tell me, why would I pose a distraction to your comrades?" Izuru asked when I was on the verge of stepping down from the roof.

"Because you're not one of us." I shrugged. "Simple. You're never gonna be one of us."

"And what makes you believe I would want to be one of you?" Izuru replied looking hurt at the notion.

"In't that why you got kicked out of Alaitoc? They didn't like a mix-race stickie kicking around?"

A slow outrage was creeping across Izuru's face when I hurried back down to ground level. Trying to forget the barbed exchange I sought out Aimo who was overseeing unloading the Cadian tow.

"Aimo, I need the anti-tank cannon," I said brusquely.

"Our friend upstairs?" Aimo inquired innocently, passing boxes of rifle ammunition to Kat and Belisha.

"Yeah, uh, I need the autocannon please."

"Well, I dunno, we only just got here remember? Ask some of the other blokes; see if they've seen it."

"Number ten." I had no desire to have to hunt around the bastion for our sole anti-armour weapon. "Oi, I got a bit of an issue with…"

"With her?"

"Aimo, how am I s'posed to address her? Am I s'posed to treat her like one o' you lot, or act differently?"

"Uhh."

"You and everyone else here know more about dealing with women than me. I know bugger all, don't I?"

"Uh, just be professional, mate. Treat her like the officer she is, alright? I know you're tight but just look at it the way you and Corta get along. Officer and noncom."

"We ain't tight, Aimo. Us lot are tight with Zeke. Zeke are a right proper bunch o' lads who warrant respect."

"No, James, that's a bit daft that." Aimo was serious now. "Zeke did some bad stuff to some of our lot back at Rakka. Don't forget that. We're not tight with these lads."

"Hunh, yeah." Aimo had a point admittedly. I had forgotten all about Zeke's abuse of some of our men.

After scouring the inside if the bastion wall I found our autocannon had been set aside and was resting on crates, neglected.

"This won't do," I said, "I need some hands here."

Pressing a team of Cannon grunts into service, I had them hoist the massive gun onto their shoulders and toil with it past the company command post and up the stairs to the rooftop. At 120 pounds the thing was a terrific weight to transport using manpower alone. Izuru wore a mixture of surprise and resentment when the gun was laid down on its three supporting legs beside her.

"Cheers, lads, off you go." I dismissed the panting grunts, both of whom were all too happy to slink off back to their little sector without bothering to question who the stranger on the roof was.

"What is this?"

"Hold on." I composed myself and knelt on the other side of the gun facing Izuru. "This is a bit tricky uh… dunno how to do it."

"Out with it."

"Sorry for calling you mixed-race and all that." I hung my head, ashamed. "There's a line in how far I can push it, and I reckon I crossed it a bit there. I'd like to restart, 'cause we got off on the wrong foot there. I dunno how to thank you for keeping me afloat back at the canal."

"Apology accepted," Izuru said smoothly. "I have been called far worse in my time. Let us start afresh." She took my hand and shook it. "An acknowledgement of respect between warriors. That we can understand."

"Good." I breathed again. "I want you to get a handle on this piece. You're gonna get to know this thing very well, and I'm gonna educate you on its use."

"Why should I defer to you for knowledge on this weapon's operation?"

Bristling, I began to reply harshly then caught onto Izuru's subtly playful tone. "I dunno, I can't understand you sometimes. The way you think," I said, wiping my face down in frustration.

"And I have trouble understanding that peculiar accent that only you have."

Picking up the gigantic magazine, heavy with 20-millimetre cartridges, I tossed it to Izuru. "You gonna listen, or am I gonna have to take it away and make you fight with an empty rifle?"

Shaking her head, Izuru smiled. "I shall be your student for this day. Show me how this works."

"Whack-ho." I swallowed hard and looked over the gun. "Let's go to work."


	34. Chapter 33

**Bastion 33, 06:57**

Little Olen Azar did not share his sergeant's near fanatical devotion to providing hot meals for the rest of the company come rain or snow. On half-rations, Cannon's arrival at the outer perimeter, and apparent safety, had lifted the spirits of the tired men who were imagining proper beds, roofs over their heads, and warm food to fill their stomachs. Never one to let his cookforce slack off despite the hard march behind them, Mess Sergeant Gale immediately set Azar, Weld, and Scurm to work in the bastion's abandoned mess, shutting his ears to the slew of complaints he was bombarded with.

"We have a duty to feed grunts, lads, so we will." Gale said cheerfully, organising a row of pans swinging on pegs into height order. "Come on, start the stoves up."

"Where's the pantry?" Scurm, rootling through cupboards, asked.

"Uh, dunno, Scum, where the Cadians left it." Weld barged past him, carrying a pair of water-filled pans over to the hobs.

"Well light it then!" Azar, pushing Weld aside, flipped the dial to turn on the gas. "We got any matches, Sarn't?"

"Right, let, let Weld get the water on. Scurm, go and find the pantry. Azar, you go find some matches or a lighter," Gale said snappily.

Pleased to be dismissed from the bastion's tiny mess, Azar stamped out into the open air, making mean eyes at some Siphanis gathered on the other side of the parked track the returning rearguard had left. _That Corporal Garst must have come back with the others. If Garst is now with the company again then Sergeant Larn must be too,_ Azar grimaced at that thought of Larn and his cronies riding back triumphant from their tussle with Zeke _. Damn him,_ Azar scowled. _Why does he get to be a sergeant?_ The desire for a sergeancy continued to simmer inside Azar. Corta giving Larn favour over Azar still rankled.

Leaning over inside the track, Azar searched around, knowing he would find no matches there, rather he just felt like a scavenge before the vehicle was returned to the Cadians. _Nothing here but ammunition,_ Azar pulled a face and withdrew.

"Oi, shift off, Cookie." Corporal Katecka, sauntering over, jerked his head at Azar to clear off.

"Got any matches, Corp?" Azar glared insolently. "Trying to light the stove."

"'Ey, use some Comp-C. Nice little blaze you'll kick up." Katecka grinned gleefully.

Throwing him a disparaging glance, Azar slunk away into the shadow of the bastion wall. At thirty feet tall, and twenty feet wide, the Cadian defences looked a formidable barricade against assault. Believing himself shrewder than to put faith in the protection of the wall Azar kept half an eye on the sky above, and an ear out for the drone that preceded the growing howl of the diving Avengers and the daemonic shriek of their airbrakes. Frightened out of his mind by the bombing, Azar had nevertheless put on a blasé expression to discourage either Scurm or Weld trying to paint him up as yellow in the aftermath. Gale though had been harder to fool and seemed convinced Azar would be inclined to bolt the moment the bombs started falling. _That bastard of a mess sergeant,_ Azar seethed. He knew that Gale wanted to keep him around only to keep an eye on him. The job of runner had been a perfect opportunity to leave the kitchen and be noticed by Corta. Larn's unexpected reappearance had scuppered it however, and with stripes on his arm Azar could do nothing but remain a lowly second cook, forever destined for obscurity.

"Any o' you blokes got matches?" Azar asked three men in muddy khaki and wide-brimmed berets that were idling on the narrow flight of stairs that led up to the ramparts.

"Naw, piss off." One of them, a lance corporal, said offhandedly. The other two ignored him outright.

"Hey, help a poor cook out here, pal." Azar adopted a false down-on-his-luck tone when he approached the two formerly Zeke prisoners; the Tabors. "Mess Sarn't Gale, bless his soul, needs something to light the stoves so we can 'ave hot scran for brekka."

"Sorry, son." The older Tabor shrugged. "You could try the Siphanis. They're up along the wall."

Azar would rather return to Gale empty-handed than have to stoop as low as to ask the Siphanis to borrow matches. But there was a driving notion to prove to Gale that Azar could do as he was told. And it was the simplest of tasks too, simply locate a source of heat and apply it to the dormant stoves. If Azar was incapable of such an errand then it would further decrease his standing in the kitchen, which was not what Azar wanted. He had to rise above it.

Despite priding himself for a having a good sense for danger, Azar froze for a second longer than he should have when the far-off moan of artillery sent the Siphanis manning the section of wall scattering into cubbyholes.

"Incoming mail!" Staff Sergeant Perandis bellowed from the courtyard below. "Get down from the wall."

The individual Olen Azar disappeared in an instant with the wail of rockets passing overhead, he became just another member of Cannon Company with no greater desire than to live through the rolling storm where no sergeancys existed. Falling flat on his stomach and clapping his hands over his ears, Azar stayed as still as possible and prayed to the Emperor for mercy. Just down from him a group of Siphanis received a direct hit on the section of the wall they were taking cover on. Brickwork, armourplate, and bodies alike were blown upwards and outwards in bright clouds of dirt and pinkish mist. The results were quite horrific to Azar who could only watch and hope another rocket did not pick his section of the wall to take a bite out of. A pair of hands seizing his ankles prompted Azar to squirm desperately, adamantly refusing to budge from his spot. A few feet further along would not make the slightest bit of difference, so why was he being pulled along like a wretched carcass?

"Leave me alone," Azar cried, simultaneously trying to keep his ears plugged and beat off his assailant.

"Trying to help you here—" The words were drowned out repeatedly by the rockets sailing overhead. "Trying to help you here, Azar," an aggravating voice said.

 _Larn?_ Azar, helpless, began to bleat, out of his mind that Larn had seized an opportunity to slip a knife inbetween his ribs whilst everybody else was distracted. Rolling onto his back Azar cringed underneath Larn's glare. Bareheaded and bereft of body armour, the equally short Larn snarled, "I can't help you. You have to do this yourself. Get up!"

The bone-jarring wallop of a rocket punching through the rivets of the wall's armour plating had Azar fling his hands over his face as white-hot fragments of stone were dumped on him. Unbeknownst to Azar, Larn had pulled him out of the way of a second impact, this one perilously close to where he had been cowering.

"Azar, dig out!" Larn shook him by the shoulder then scarpered as heavier salvos began falling inside the bastion's walls, as opposed to landing short or flying well overhead as the opening volleys had.

Gobsmacked at the unexpected saviour, Azar fled from the trembling ramparts, scurrying down the steps and inside the walls, flying in amongst the rest of Cannon who were crammed into the corridor head to foot.

"Sit down, you prick." Somebody tugged at Azar's trouserleg as he stumbled around in the semi-dark, tripping over legs and feet.

"Oi, calm down, cookie, it's only a light drizzle." Corporal Belisha tittered at Azar's jumpiness. "Siddown."

"Azar, sit down!" Perandis appeared behind Azar and directed him over to a narrow gap between shoulders. "And wait for the all clear."

* * *

Azar's little episode atop the wall receding in my mind, I moved past the Cannons and Siphanis who were crammed nearly nose-to-nose inside the narrow corridor, checking for any wounded on my way to the company command post.

"How you gettin' on, Aimo?" I clasped Aimo's shoulder briefly. "Anybody hit?"

"Think everything's still in place." Aimo, grinning, felt around his crotch. "Find your cover, mate, you look a bit naked there." As he spoke the walls shook and dirt fell from the ceiling. "I've still got mine. Here, pop that on." He produced his flattened dark blue infantry beret from inside his jacket and gave it to me.

"Think I've got a few stones outta place here," Draino piped up, deflecting an elbow from Belisha.

"Peace, children." Cyrano, acting the stern father, made to prise Belisha and Draino apart before a scuffle could ensue. "Pray you can attend to Zeke in short stead, and leave yourselves in good enough shape to do so."

"Can we get service 'ere?" Arrigo cast about for any nearby cooks to needle. "Them cooks slacking off?"

"Probably shivering in their bunks," Arrigo's friend Colvin replied. "Want some hot scran."

Ignoring any further comments of a derogatory nature directed against the cooks, I reported in to Corta once Perandis had finished accounting for all ranks.

"Sir, all ranks accounted for. We're sitting tight for the time being," Perandis said, beckoning me into the CP when I had hung back in the corridor outside. "Inside, Larn."

I wondered just who was seeing to the Siphanis' admin. Lieutenant D'ambrosia had not left Corta's side throughout the rocket strike, and that stone-faced pioneer sergeant, her 2iC, I had not seen hide nor hair of. It took all of my discipline to bite down on the insubordinate remark and keep silent when Perandis and the officers lapsed into discussion about the combined force's fireplan.

"S'cuse me, Staff Sarn't, am I needed 'ere," I asked quietly.

"You are, Sarn't," Perandis put firmly. "You're third in command of Cannon Company. I need you to listen closely and get a handle on the fireplan. You'll be in command of all fireteams to the east of this bastion – to the right – I am going to be overseeing the western sector."

Throughout the O-group my mind constantly wandered. Corta appeared, at least in my eyes, overly concerned about the larger picture, and not the comparatively unstable platform Cannon and the Siphanis were balancing on. Imagining myself in command, I would have put more emphasis on the tactical side of things rather than focusing on the eventual division-strength counterattack; if it ever materialised. And how would such a manoeuvre succeed when the flooded fields restricted all movement to the roads?

"Sir, how we supposed to counterattack over flooded fields?" I asked aloud, receiving silence in reply.

"We're not," Corta said. "We and a select few have been placed under command of Second Guards Brigade. It's our job to hold the bastion here to allow as many fighting men to be evacuated from the planet as possible."

 _Fighting men?_ _Evacuated?_

Flashbacks to Nemesis Tessera, the general disorganisation, and the refusal to evacuate litter cases raised the hairs on the back of my neck and my arms. Feeling an unfamiliar emotion grip me, I spoke through tightly-clenched teeth. "It that bad then, sir?"

"We don't know, Sarn't. All we know is what the colonel of Second Guards gets from General Rebbeck. We have our orders, and they are to hold this bastion here."

Listening to the rest of the briefing despondently I thrust my hands into my pockets when dismissed from the O-group and slouched outside, taking the stairway to the left upwards instead of heading back downstairs to Aimo and the lads. Izuru was sitting at the head of the stairs with her back to the reinforced hatch that led out onto the roof. Diligently she had taken the autocannon from her firing position and had placed it beside her. How she had managed to lift the 120lb weapon unassisted was anyone's guess. But with the news of the evacuation, I could not have cared less about it. There was also her unexplained companion.

To my consternation Joe Herle was perched on the step below her and was writing feverishly. Bringing my boot down sharply on the steps, the loud slap of the leather made him jump and fumble with his pencil.

"Roof's out of bounds, Scribe," I growled.

"But we're not on the roof," Herle, caught off guard, pointed out. "No. We're not – we're not on the roof."

"Been getting cosy with the scribe, have you?" I glowered at Izuru who folded her arms.

"Words flow freer when in good company," Izuru said evenly. "It is not a crime to speak of oneself to another."

"What she tell you?" I moved closer to Herle, fraught with jealousy and hurt that she might have been giving away bits of the past that I'd rather she had not in case they included me.

"Nothing of any major significance, James." Herle looked up at me hopefully. "All she was saying was that she misses her children and her past life. We wouldn't discuss the past. I understand it's a sensitive topic."

I stared long and hard before muttering, "off wi' ye."

Lowering his gaze, Herle got up and left. "I'm sorry."

"By the Grace of the Mother I would never trade tales of our past with another," Izuru said reassuringly when I sat down on the cold step beside her. "I know just how much pain it causes."

Self-consciously I felt in the centre of my chest where the shrapnel had left the scar. The thought of it brought on a twinge of pain. And then there was the creeping guilt hiding deep inside like an angry monster waiting to rise. Angrily repressing it, I raised my knees and hugged them together.

"We're having another Nemtess," I muttered.

"Impossible," Izuru scoffed, "Cadia is nigh the most heavily defended planet in your Imperium. How can your command be mired in such defeatism?"

"I don't know." I closed my eyes, overcome with bitterness. "I don't know anything. The officers don't know anything. We're being hung out to dry, just like Nemtess." Staring ahead into space, I felt my throat tighten. "I'm gonna die here."

"Desert. Spare yourself the horrors of reliving Nemesis Tessera and accompany me on my search." Izuru pulled my hand away from my knee, turned it so the palm was facing upwards, and held it in her own. Wincing at my dry, cracked skin rubbing against Izuru's palm, I sighed. "Can't this time. I'm a sarn't, I've got responsibilities; bloody third in command of Cannon so I am. I reckon you've got a better chance o' hoofing it alone now. You're close enough to Kraf. You're inside the perimeter too and it's only gonna be a matter of time before one of them lot downstairs recognises you from the Grace." Prying my hand free I folded my arms across my chest. "I don't want to see you put up against a wall and shot 'cause some zealous twat recognises you."

"I choose to stay—"

"Don't. You've got nothing to gain here," I snapped. "Why you always running into a burning building when there's an open door to escape through behind you?"

"I choose to stay." Izuru nudged the autocannon. "I would observe the effect this has on Chaos Space Marines."

"Number ten. You're addicted to this, Izuru. You can up and leave anytime you want. You're lucky you have that option."

"Has the day come when the sergeant commands the captain?" Izuru's face registered shock, though how much of it was genuine I could not tell. "You should speak with more reverence."

"No. Speak to me man-to-man. Let's not just be stickie and human for once," I snarled.

Her eyes flashing dangerously Izuru turned sideways on, now face-to-face with me. "You wish to converse informally, with the enemy on our doorstep and dropping rockets on our heads?"

"Yeah, yeah I do." Facing Izuru, almost nose-to-nose, I sucked air in through my teeth, daring her to blink.

"Then will you _please_ remove your beret and face me eye-to-eye," Izuru said, her voice shaking.

"Right, the cover's coming off." I ripped Aimo's beret off and hurled it down the stairs. "If it's gonna help you and I understand one another then yeah, I'm alright with that."

"You believe that I have an addiction to combat that you yourself can cure, is that it?" Izuru raised her eyebrows quizzically.

"No-no-no, I can't sort out your problems for you—"

"There, you are fixated on that. You believe I am the one at fault here."

"Well you keep showing up right opposite me, Stickie. I'm getting tired of the attention and tired of you failing to find Keladi. You – you're wasting time here playing guardsman with us lot when you should be ditty-bopping down the road, picking up your girl, and scooting off this planet before you get zipped in the back of the head."

"Your callousness with regard to your comrades—"

"This in't my problem, Stickie." I pointed at the floor beneath me. "You're the problem here. You're the odd one out. You're the _fucking_ xeno in the room full of humans."

"Were it not for my mentor I would never have left Ulthwé. Our expedition here was doomed from the start, I merely seek to overcome the fallout and survive. I _want_ you to survive. Aimo, and Woulter, and Peter too, I have a space in my heart for all, but most of all you, Arvin James Larn. Grendel is still fresh in my mind. Your protectiveness of my children, even if it was wrong to shield them from their mother, shone forth from the darkness, a spark of simple kindness from a stranger I would have otherwise outright dismissed as another degenerate worthy only to fall underneath my blade. You are a blind, ignorant little being to not see this, even when it waves itself in your face."

"I'm not that bloke, not anymore." I swallowed. "He's gone."

"That is why you are the problem. I watched you attempt suicide at Rakka. It bit me deeper than the keenest wraithbone. After fighting so hard to prevent your death I had not foreseen that you yourself may be the only being whom I cannot protect you from. The younger human, the eager manner in which he smothered those blasts, only worked the knife deeper. Alas, I do not even know his name, but he was friend to you."

Breaking the intense stare we shared, I rubbed my throbbing temple, feeling a headache come on. "Jacklyn Molke. Ral and Carrillo got him inside Jark before the gates shut," I said wearily.

"I shall offer prayers for his safety then. His survival is a victory, however small." Izuru rested a hand on her chest, rising and falling in conjunction with her breathing. "I would beg us pray together, each to our respective gods; when the time is right, of course."

Out of bluster and nursing a sore throat, I spoke, softly this time. "Um, I'm going off again. Ranting and raving like a lunatic. It comes easy now."

"Release it all. Let it out. Vent." Izuru touched my shoulder. "Trade blows with the wall if you must."

"I…" Shaking off Izuru's comforting hand, I went down to fetch my beret, pausing at Izuru's odd stab at humour. "…There it is."

"The beret is going back on?" Izuru smiled sadly.

"Yeah, the beret's going back on…" Half-heartedly I fiddled with the inner lining, on the verge of asking something important, something I had promised to do after leaving Nemtess.

"Do you believe in ghosts?" Izuru asked cryptically, cutting off the words that were hovering on the tip of my tongue.

"No, uhh." I scratched the back of my neck, frustrated I was unable to express what it was I needed to do, and why I wanted Izuru to be with me. "You, erm, managed that gun alright?" I pointed vaguely at the autocannon.

"I managed. Now do you believe in ghosts?"

Stubbornly she was not letting go of the question, to which I began to reply gratingly, only to clamp my mouth shut out of worry it would spark another argument. "I've had enough," I mumbled. As if listening to me, the crescendo of the incoming fell away into nothing, leaving silence outside the walls. Barked from downstairs, the order to stand-to came as a relief, granting me leave from the stickie. I did not want to admit it but she had got under my skin, badly, leaving a torrent of unfamiliar emotions coursing around my system that threatened to upset my stomach. Standing-to had returned purpose to my body. I could be myself again, and forget the stickie, concentrate on the grunts I was commanding and let loose the build-up of stress on Zeke when he popped his warty head up from the ground to recce our line.

"Set up your firing position on the roof, fire on the command, not before. I'll be back to check up on you." Setting my beret straight I nodded, business-like again, and receiving an identical gesture in return.

"Understood." Izuru swept her scarf around her head before heaving the massive gun into her arms.

* * *

Clattering down past the CP, I heard Corta speaking on the bastion's vox to the colonel, explaining we had made contact with Zeke and would await reinforcements. _Tell me something I don't know,_ I tried to make myself discreet when Lieutenant D'ambrosia, accompanied by her sergeant, rushed out of the CP past me.

"Attend to your fireteams, Sergeant," she snapped, "idleness breeds incompetence."

Tutting under my breath, I squeezed through the narrow accessway that led into the eastern sector. Positioned before firing ports were three-man gun teams, one every twenty feet or so with their muzzles pointed north at the early-morning mist. A lack of tripods for the assorted Rekyls, IMs, and the single Vraks taken from the Zik had left them without means to fire comfortably from the ports, the openings being several feet off the floor. Cannon had improvised by stacking crates atop one another and using them as platforms, further propping them up with hardbags to soak up fire.

"Ready, Aimo?" I came up behind Aimo who was sitting on a crate behind his IM .30 Cal. Arrigo and Colvin were assisting, ready to provide fresh belts and cooling for the gun's barrel.

"Ho." Aimo passed a cigarette up to me. "Lemme guess. The roof's a no-smoking area?" His lip curled.

"Cheeky." I glanced at Arrigo and Colvin, neither one aware of the new addition to the company.

"Oi, don't be spending too much time up there, you'll get your 'ead shot off, mate."

"Yeah-yeah." I accepted the light from him and drew the smoke into my lungs gratefully. "S'pect I'll be getting through these quite a bit now."

"Calms me down."

"Mmm. You alright for ammo?"

"We're easy on the .338 belts." Aimo tapped a stack of cartridge belts loaded in boxes beside his knee. "Just gotta worry about the barrel warping. I've got these two pissers here. They can squirt on the barrel in case it gets hot."

"Number one. Look lively, you two," I said to Arrigo and Colvin, snorting when neither made to reply, "why you look so gormless?"

Down from Aimo's fireteam, Kat sat behind the Vraks with Cyrano and Belisha serving the weapon. "Oi, look sharp, you lot, there's a war on, y'know." I prodded Belisha in the back when it appeared he had nodded off.

"Sleeping on duty's a shooting matter." Kat grinned sardonically as Belisha's head jerked up.

"Aw, don't tell him that," Belisha groaned, rubbing his sore eyes.

"Sort yourself out, Corp," I said gently, "gonna be setting up a brass exchange soon."

"He coulda had you shot, Elisha," Kat said mockingly when I moved away.

"But he didn't." Cyrano pointed out.

Overhearing the exchange I stopped to listen, half-turned in their direction. _Daft to think I might_ _have played it by the book._ My experience had taught me that a man who played everything by the book would find himself quickly alienated from his fellow grunts. Then he would have enemies on both sides of the battlefield, Zeke shooting at him from the front, and his fellow grunts shooting at him from behind.

"Standby, lads." I stopped by Draino's Rekyl team and briefly consulted them about ammunition and fresh barrels. Cleverly they had drawn up a bucket of water to douse the Rekyl's barrel once it had heated up from sustained firing. This ingenious solution they had not seen fit to share with the other fireteams though, something I ordered them to pass on.

"You lot wired?" I asked the four cooks once I reached their stubber emplacement.

"We're ready to do our bit, Sarn't." Gale nodded confidently. His enthusiasm was not shared by Azar, Weld, or Scurm, all three keeping their silence.

"Number one; hold your fire for now."

Perandis was waiting for me outside the CP when I finished making my rounds. Silently he beckoned with a finger. "What's this I hear about a merc sniper on the roof?"

"Mister Corta gave permission for a private combatant to lend a hand with the defence of the bastion. The roof's out of bounds right now, Sarn't."

"And Mister Corta outlined that too?" Perandis fixed me with an unimpressed frown. "That the roof was out of bounds?"

"Yeah, Sarn't, Mister Corta didn't want the lads fraternising. Makes sense," I said simply. "All fireteams east of the CP are standing-to. They're okay for ammo, and morale's high."

"Likewise with the west." Perandis eyed me with suspicion when I did not follow him into the CP. "Alright, I'll let Mister Corta know."

Slinking away upstairs, I eased open the hatch and stepped out onto the roof, keeping low enough so my head was not visible above the parapet, which may have been simply paranoia on my behalf. A tall being would have to expose his head and upper body before taking to the cover offered by the wall; I had no such issues.

Lying prone, still and silent behind the chunky autocannon, Izuru shifted her weight on her elbows.

"It's me," I whispered, getting down on my belly beside her and taking out my field glasses.

"I was aware."

"How?" I asked, glassing the field of fire offered by the V-shaped firing slit.

"Your soles are of a different pattern to the standard-issue boot."

"You can tell that from the sound?"

"I can tell a lot about you by the noise you make. It is what sets our kind above yours." Reaching across Izuru removed my cigarette from my mouth and flicked it over the wall. "I warned you never to do that in my presence. And you have the nerve to call me an addict."

"Pfft. I'm gonna do it again, you know." As good as my word, I placed another of Aimo's smokes inbetween my teeth but did not light it.

"Then so will I." Izuru made to remove it. "You cannot win."

Grabbing at Izuru's hand, I made an attempt to arrest it. Her response was to slowly squeeze, increasing the pressure on my hand until I was forced to let go. "Ah-aah."

"You forget our situation. That was foolish, soldier. I expect you to act your age with the enemy nearby." Izuru dropped my sore hand and yanked the dry cigarette out of my mouth. "It is a sickness."

"What I do in my spare time's no concern of yours," I muttered. "None of your bloody business."

"I care—" Izuru began, hastily falling silent when she heard something I had not.

"Where?" I got up on my knees and swept the mist-covered horizon.

"The road," she said mechanically, her hands taking hold of the autocannon and tucking the stock into her shoulder.

"Wait." I spotted a motorbike driving down the road, its flight pursued by Zeke riflefire. "Dispatch rider, one of ours."

Taking the stairs two and three at a time, I called in the CP. Corta and D'ambrosia were both huddled together around the open shutter, both watching the plight of the rider through their field glasses.

"One of ours, Larn." Corta heard me enter. "Order the lads to hold their fire."

"Sir." I rushed along the inside of the wall, spreading the order, ensuring no trigger-happiness would occur. Both officers had not moved a muscle when I returned. "Well come on, sir, let's get out there, let's get him."

"Impossible, Sarn't, Zeke had something to say about this." Corta moved aside and let me look out at the road. A Zeke marksman, invisible to us, had hit the tyres of the rider's motorbike, swiping it out from under him and leaving the man lying with one leg trapped underneath the fallen bike. He was thirty yards outside the perimeter.

"Staff Sarn't Perandis, keep the gates shut, and shoot any man that might attempt a rescue," Corta ordered Perandis when the latter reappeared from the western sector.

"Yessir."

Seeing he was out of our reach, the dispatch rider began writing in a notebook. Then, folding it neatly and tucking it into the breast pocket of his leather jerkin the man pulled out his laspistol and shot himself in the head.

"Well that solves the problem," said D'ambrosia. "I have some Tanna tea I am willing to share. Will you partake, Lieutenant Corta?"

"Later, Lieutenant." Corta exchanged a glance with Perandis and I.

 _Cold bitch,_ I thought, trying to wordlessly convey my feelings with Corta.

"Alright, Sarn't Perandis, Sarn't Larn, return to your fireteams, keep the men standing-to," Corta said briskly.

"Staffy, can I…?" I tried to corner Perandis once we were out of D'ambrosia's earshot.

"Not now, Larn. Zeke's getting ready for an assault. Get to your firing position."

"They are advancing!" Corta yelled.

"Right, lads, standby," I shouted down the firing line. The response received was all manner of clicks as gunners readied their weapons, setting sights and removing safeties.

"Wait for it." Yelled Corta. "Wait until I blow my whistle!"

Assessing the strength of Zeke through my glasses, I leant over Aimo's IM stubber for a clearer view. Behind the loose formation of the vanguard were men crouching with grappling hooks launchers and ladders. Then an officer strode to the forefront, raised a sword, and gave a blast on his whistle. This signal was quickly followed by Corta blowing his own whistle and giving the fire order.

"That's it. Open fire!" I cried, pulling out of Aimo's line of sight and letting him begin blasting with his stubber. "Keep their heads down."

Finding a vacant firing port between Aimo and Kat's fireteam, I poked the muzzle of my Kazalak through the opening and took aim at the Zekes. Wrapping the loose sling around my forearm to tighten my hold I set the safety and squeezed off a shot. With so many automatics firing on both flanks it was impossible to tell whether or not I was hitting anything, the chaos unfolding within the Zeke ranks further sowing confusion.

"Good job," I said, more to myself than to anyone else. The combined reports prevented all verbal communication over shouting into another's ear. The slow, laboured blasts of the Rekyls punctuated the much higher _whoosh_ of the solitary Vraks, single shots of which being indiscernible.

Ceasing fire for a minute, I tracked the paths of the tracers as they forged a beaten zone in the Zeke's paths. Such a blisteringly high amount of lead being poured into that zone was having a profound effect on Zeke whose attack had lost momentum before it had even really got off the ground. They were still a good two hundred yards from their objective and neither their officers, who were taking to letting off rounds at their men, or the follow-on waves behind them, were galvanising the assault.

The call to cease fire came two hours later. Two hours after the attack had ground to a halt. Two full magazine's worth of steel .374 cases clinked together at my feet. Larger quantities of spent cartridges were piled on the floor beneath the gun teams, along with empty magazines, and both disintegrating and non-disintegrating belts from the IM and Vraks. Dust hung in the air, the stink of propellant ticking noses and ears, and making eyes smart.

"Anyone hurt?" I called, rocking in my last loaded KA magazine and letting a round into the chamber. "Sound off."

"Garst, Arrigo, and Colvin," Aimo gave me a thumbs up.

 _Good lad,_ I nodded back. "Come on, gimme a headcount. Is anyone hurt?"

"We're alright," Kat shouted, a little too loud for comfort. The Vraks he had manned continuously without pause had left him short of hearing. Both of his assistants were unwounded.

"Draino's fireteam is up!"

"Cooks present and accounted for."

"Highlanders!" The faint cry came from down the end of the firing line.

" _Bloody good_ ," I said under my breath. The thrill I had got from the shooting was undercut by the determination of the Zeke officers to continuously drive their men forwards into our killing zones. Peter and Woulter may have been among them, and they would have gone down just as quickly. The both of them were acting as riflemen down at the far end of the firing line, supporting the trio of Gellen Highlanders on their automatic.

"Sir?" I called in on Lieutenant Corta who was braced at an angle, his M-36 aimed out of the CP's firing port. Wharton was there with him in a similar firing stance. D'ambrosia, to my relief, was not in the CP. "Sir, Zeke's pulling back. All ranks in my sector accounted for."

"Very good, Sarn't, I'll be along to check up on you in a minute." Corta stepped down from the port. "Waiting for the staff sarn't to report in. In the meantime have the lads reload spent magazines and belts. Keep 'em occupied with their tasks whilst Zeke regroup." Glancing up at the cloudy sky, Corta added, "form a detail to lay out dry power packs in the open air. Once the sun comes out, they'll recharge."

Perandis' report was identical to mine. No casualties. D'ambrosia's people too were all intact.

"Now, how about that brew?" Corta left Wharton on guard and tended to the portable brewer that had been brought up from the mess.

"Gladly." D'ambrosia propped her lasgun against the map table and took off her leather gloves.

Having no wish to make awkward small-talk with the Siphani officer, I slipped outside and went up to Izuru.

"Alright?" I whispered, slipping onto my front.

"No cause for concern," Izuru replied, keeping her eye glued to the sights of a Kantrael. Refraining from operating the autocannon during the contact, Izuru had made use of an M-36 from her rooftop vantage.

"Not the targets you were looking for?" I put gently, glassing the Zeke bodies.

"A waste of ammunition." Izuru set down the lasgun and wiped her dirty face. "I have a request."

"Yeah?"

"Could you provide me with a means to brace my weapon?"

I pressed a finger into my ringing ear, working my jaw up and down. "I'll bring some hardbags up 'ere."

"I would advise that you not disturb me during battle."

"I could spot for you. Marksmen work in pairs."

"Not I. Rangers are spotters and snipers. You are not trained."

"Hmm, fine. I'll be downstairs if you need me."

"This was the easy part. Be aware that it shall only become harder from here on." Reaching behind, Izuru rubbed her back, her face contorting. "You _will_ take casualties. This cannot be prevented, only kept to a minimum. Be conservative with your ammunition, and watch for enemy officers. They are the driving force behind the attacks, as you will have seen here."

"Okay, thanks for the advice. Um, you haven't done something to your back, have you?" Concerned, I waited for her reply. "Need you proper wired here. Can't be hiding something."

"Worry not." Izuru glared fiercely. "It does not concern you."

"Right-ho." I slithered backwards. "Be downstairs."

"I do struggle to understand your jargon sometimes, human."

"Learn a whole new language in the Guard, you do. Oi, don't call me human. I won't call you stickie anymore if you don't call me human, Sniper."

"Agreed."

"Number one. Stay sharp."

* * *

 **Bastion 1, Headquarters of Rear Admiral Oslam Seger, 09:17**

General Ursarker Edgar Creed had no business venturing forth from General Headquarters at a time when his presence above all was required to direct the battles occurring on Cadia Secundus, but word had reached him that the evacuation had stalled over a dispute over which branch was supposed to be overseeing it.

The journey from General Headquarters was a four-kilometre drive along bombed-out roads, they being outside the city's void shield, forcing Creed's staff car many times to come to a near-standstill. "Could have walked and been there by now," Creed fumed to himself as his driver pumped on the horn to scatter a ragged file of Cadian troopers. Creed was beginning to seriously consider ordering the car to stop so he could get out and make the rest of the journey on foot when the squeal of long-range artillery pre-empted a series of explosions just down the road from him.

"Stop here!" Creed barked, shoving his door open and jumping out. "Never asked you your name, Guardsman."

"Kormachen, sir," Creed's driver gasped as he tumbled out of the driver's seat onto the road.

"Quite. Do you want to remain here and bring the car up to Bastion One once this bother is over and I'll go on ahead?"

"Um, yes, sir." Kormachen remained crouched in the rubble, his nervous eyes flitting about.

"Alright then, put your helmet on and take cover in one of these buildings." Creed tapped his beret and remained standing even when a precariously close explosion dumped showers of dirt upon him. "Come on, up you get."

"Sorry, sir." Kormachen dived back into the car and pulled out his cover and lasgun.

"Off with you now, on the double." Creed watched as the driver dropped down below street level into a basement before continuing on down the zig-zagging street.

 _Damned if I'll take cover_ , Creed thought, glancing up at the sky when more salvos thundered overhead to crash down on the void shield. As an officer it was required that he not show fear in front of the common soldiery, even under fire from the enemy, so as Cadians and men from foreign regiments scuttled along sides of the wreckage-strewn roads from cover to cover, Creed carried himself with confidence, acting as if he was taking nothing more than a morning stroll before breakfast, as was his daily ritual. But even the heavy bombardments, sporadic though they were, forced Creed into basements at times. The enemy had somehow managed to zero the streets despite their irregular construction, and as such, could guide their rounds with precision accuracy, stomping up and down the roads like marching boots, further disrupting the surfaces. Inside the basements were what seemed like hundreds of soldiers and civilians who, having fled to Kasr Kraf in hope of escaping the enemy, sought shelter in the only roofs left above their heads. It pained Creed to see the imperial fighting man cowering in holes like the enemy would. Further souring his mood, a slowly swaying man in stained olive grey fatigues bumped into him from behind. Turning to confront him, Creed saw the bottle in his hand and smelt the alcohol on his breath.

 _Disgraceful_. Creed ducked out of the shadowy basement as the drunk offered him his bottle. He would rather face artillery than have to contend with a sight like that again. He would be having words with the rear admiral about the conduct of the troops once he reached the bastion.

Creed managed to make the rest of the distance to the concrete bastion uninterrupted, but was admitted only after pulling rank on the overzealous naval armsmen guarding the entrance that seemed convinced that he was a Chaos spy. _Dedicated, but sadly mistaken,_ Creed thought, waiting patiently as the armsmen scrutinised his papers for the fourth time.

"That's the bleedin general," one of them whispered to his mate.

"Oh uh, which one?" the other replied.

Creed pulled a cigar from his the top pocket of his fatigues and took his papers out of the man's hands. "Thank you, gentlemen, I shall see myself in."

The pale, timid stares of the cowed armsmen followed Creed as he strode into the dim confines of the bastion. Evidently they were anxious of possible punishment they might receive for unknowingly waylaying a general officer. Creed though simply ignored the holdup, for it was better to arrive late than not at all; or even stretcher-bound. How embarrassing that would have been.

"Good morning, Admiral," Creed growled when he entered the sparsely occupied basement. Rear-Admiral Oslam Seger, conversing with Commander Jack Cudden, was alone bar a single communications officer manning a vox set. It did not appear that Seger was actually doing much by simply sitting in a chair.

"Good morning, sir," Cudden nodded politely. Unlike the admiral, Cudden carried a helmet under his arm and had a pistol holstered at his waist. His attire bore dirt, in contrast to Seger's immaculate uniform and neat rows of coloured ribbons on his breast.

"General." Seger, sweating in his dark grey navy uniform, stubbed a cigarette into an ashtray. "I have some concerns about the state of the evacuation I wish to bring to you."

"Likewise, Admiral Seger. Admiral Quarren specified that this was to be a joint effort, not solely a naval endeavour. So why are you not liaising with Colonel Venant?"

"Pardon me, sir, I was explaining to Rear Admiral Seger. There's uh, some confusion as to who we are supposed to be evacuating. I came on behalf of Colonel Venant," said Cudden.

"Who is this Venant?" Seger's brow furrowed. "I was not aware of this new development."

"With the greatest respect, Admiral, I suggest you go forth from this bastion with Commander Cudden and see for yourself how the evacuation is progressing. With an admiral's presence you will be able to put a lid on this confused mess and get it under control."

"General Creed," Seger said slowly, and with great effort, "why do you not venture down to the airbase yourself? A showing from the esteemed lord castellan would be most beneficial for morale, no?"

Leaning on the desk, Creed said, with equal measure, "sir, I am fighting battles to the north, south, east, and west of Kasr Kraf, I cannot be in four or five separate places at once. What is worse is that my men are fighting not to gain ground but to hold it. And I expect that every man not on the frontlines to do his duty – be he Imperial Guard or Navy – to assist in the evacuation of our troops so that they may withdrawal in good order and regroup to fight another day."

Seger leant back in his chair and casually blew smoke at Creed. "I spoke with one of your divisional commanders not long ago, Rebbeck his name was. I told him it was a disgrace to the Imperial Guard that you are abandoning Cadia so readily. It is treason."

Gooseflesh rose on Creed's arms as Seger spoke the word. "Then we all guilty, each and every man under my command and yours, but I will _not_ sit idly inside a concrete bunker to wait for the enemy to knock on the door. Admiral Seger, you will get off your arse at once and go with Commander Cudden to the airbase to speak with your shore party."

A pause then, "I must seek orders from Admiral Quarren," Seger muttered. "Good morning, Commander, General."

"Very well." Creed sincerely hoped Quarren would set the idle Seger on the straight and narrow. Emperor only knew how badly the evacuation was being affected because of the Navy's stubborn refusal to co-operate with the Guard, and Creed would have no way of knowing until Seger, blast his eyes, worked to establish a proper liaison that included both branches of service.

"Tell me exactly what is going on down at the airbase, Commander," Creed said to Cudden after they had left the admiral engrossed with sending his communique. "Our numbers on the inside?"

"About a hundred and thirty thousand Cadian troops, three times that many from foreign regiments. Unknown numbers of Skitarii and abhumans."

"Numbers evacuated?"

"Fifteen-thousand over these past two days. We're getting the support elements off in as orderly a fashion as possible, only we're not sure what to do with the men from the teeth outfits. There are thousands more troops, Cadian and whatnot, that are arriving by the hour; most of them without officers or NCOs. We don't know what to do with them. There's nobody to organise them and I daresay if we turned them away from the ships there'd be a mutiny on our hands."

Creed thought for a moment. "I cannot go down to the evacuation points myself. I have too much going on currently. My armies are fully engaged as you know."

"We'll do our best to make something of this, General."

"…Yes, I expect you will." Creed snatched up a piece of notepaper from a desk a clerk was working at. "Your first call is to get all those men hiding in the basements outside and down to the landing ground. They've taken to drinking anything they can get their hands on, blast them."

"What with the mains being contaminated…"

And another problem. "Who and when?" Creed's face darkened. Scribbling his orders down Creed finished with his signature and passed the paper to Cudden.

"Spies, saboteurs." Cudden shrugged. "Hard to say."

"Here, you have my authority to shoot any serious troublemakers. Now go and find some Guard officers and get those men mobilised. Good luck to you."

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

 **Bastion 33, 10:25**

"No withdrawal before twenty-two hundred hours," a grim-faced Simon Corta said to his gathered NCOs. "Orders from the colonel."

"Well, at least we have a chance to give a good account of ourselves." D'ambrosia, taking the news far better than the sergeants, smiled. "By the Emperor we stand here, together."

Both Perandis and Larn, unimpressed by the overt display of piety swiftly excused themselves from the CP leaving Corta alone with D'ambrosia.

"Something on your mind, Simon?" D'ambrosia asked, taking a chair and sitting down to write in her diary. "First contact was approximately oh-seven oh-four, was it?"

"Um, around that time yes, Leesha." Corta frowned up at the ceiling. "Zero seven zero four, I think. Not sure where you get the oh from."

"An outdated time-keeping system, yes," said D'ambrosia. "What troubles you?"

"Oh, just – just worried about the state of this bastion. Need to clean this place up. Cadians left it in quite a state," Corta waved his hand vaguely, hoping to dissuade D'ambrosia from further inquiring into his state of absent-mindedness. In a moment of unprofessionalism Corta's mind had strayed upstairs and out onto the roof where he knew the mercenary had taken up a firing position. He wondered what her name was, and where she came from, what drew her to this fight, and what kept her. Surely she must be aware that there was only the slimmest chance of her receiving payment for services to the Imperial Guard. As an organisation it looked down upon soldiers of fortune, men and women who fought not for the Emperor, but for coin. But that face, the uniquely handsome face of such natural beauty, swathed in the headscarf had turned Corta's head.

"You are contemplating something." D'ambrosia smiled knowingly. "Have I to be worried?"

"Uhh, no, no not at all," Corta replied, stroking the stubble on his chin. "Since we're in a lull I think our guest deserves a talking to. Maybe find out her background, her price…"

"Is that all you intend to find out?" D'ambrosia's eyes flashed. "A thing for unscrupulous mercenary types, have you?"

"Ha." Corta grinned sheepishly. "I'm a professional, Leesha. Examples must be set."

"Well, we must make sure they are the right ones."

Opening his hip flask, Corta offered D'ambrosia a drink. "Might a future date be set? A place of our own choosing with a considerably better selection of beverages?"

D'ambrosia gently pushed the flask away. "I shall take it under consideration."

"Zeke's making a move, sir" Len Wharton exclaimed. Raising his M-36 he sighted through the gun port, stepping to one side when Corta climbed up onto the firing step next to him.

"Wait, wait." Corta spotted men and women being herded in front of the advancing Zekes through his glasses. "They're using refugees as human shields. We can't fire now."

"I'll pass the word." D'ambrosia hurried from the CP, catching Sergeant Levauz as she went. "With me, Sergeant."

"Sir, we're standing-to." Sergeant Larn appeared in the doorway, Perandis at his shoulder. "What we doing?"

"You are not to fire with the Rekyls. Have your best marksmen try with .338s. Notify our sniper, she is not to employ the autocannon against soft targets."

"Roger that, sir." Larn sped off. The young man wore neither body armour, nor hard cover, something Corta only just realised. As far as examples went that might have been taking it a little too far.

* * *

"Sarn't, what we doing?" Aimo had his Rekyl shouldered and ready to fire. "Mister Corta giving us the go?"

"Nah, those civvies are in the way," I replied, peering, snatching a glance through the firing port. "Can't fire now."

"Aw, bollocks to that, Sarn't," Kat shouted. "C'mon, you lot, let's waste these Zeke fu—"

"Shut up, Kat. Hold your fire now. First one that lets loose is gettin' a bunch o' fives," I shouted back with equal vehemence. "We can't use the Rekyls. We've still got our bloody rifles."

Sweeping the crates clear of brass casings, I rested my elbows on the surface and took aim with a borrowed M-36, carefully setting the beam to its narrowest setting and reducing the power to two-thirds output. Squeezing off a shot, I looked on in satisfaction when a Zeke forcing a civilian to walk in front of him collapsed, a tiny smoking hole in his forehead. Elsewhere other marksmen were taking precise shots, shooting Zeke in the only place they could see; their heads.

"Nice shot, James, he's down," Aimo, watching through my glasses, said encouragingly. "Aah, he's scarpering, the yella belly." Aimo's comment was directed at a lone Zeke grunt that was being made to walk backwards in front of the civilians, ready to shoot any that made a break for freedom. Seeing so many of his comrades fall to the enemy's rifles prompted him to get up and make a dash into the ranks. He fell out of sight into the grass before he reached the safety of other bodies. Whether it was due to the enemy rifles or his own we could not tell. With the apparent lack of danger of Zeke returning fire at us, helmets were removed from where they had been pressing down on sweaty brows, and berets put on in their place.

"Cease fire!" I shouted. Zeke had retreated, leaving an even greater score of bodies in his wake; with many civilians amongst them. Useless to them as shields, Zeke had bid farewell to us with spiteful bursts of automatic gunfire directed against the civilians, rendering our carefully-placed shots for nought. We watched silently as people of all ages, and both genders, collapsed like ninepins in the grass, staining it dark with blood.

"Wouldn't mind a crack at these blokes now," Belisha spoke as he fired a single shot from his .338. "Bloody nerve using civvies as human shields."

"Cease fire, Corporal!" I repeated. "I want a headcount and ammo check, iggery."

Taking a leaf out of Corta's book I ensured the men were occupied before reporting to the lieutenant. "Nailed a good few Zekes there, sir, couldn't stop 'em from wasting those civvies though."

"Not your fault, Sarn't," Corta said lightly, resting the Kantrael he had been using to snipe at Zeke against the table. "Receive anything in return?"

"Uhh no, sir, everything was outgoing. Zeke didn't feel like firing case he provoked us into zipping him with the Rekyls."

"Very good, Sarn't." Corta rubbed his hands together, mulling over his next words. "Tell me, now that we are in lull, I would like to know more about the sniper – the mercenary upstairs. I figured you might know more about her than you previously let on. Take a seat."

"Erm." Shifty-eyed, I cast about, searching for a means to excuse myself before Corta probed too deeply.

"Damn it, Larn, you've gone redder than a cherry. Speak your mind, man."

A rush of feet, and Aimo skidded to a halt in the doorway. "Beg pardon, sir," he panted, white-faced. "It's Belisha."

"…Belisha?" I flew out of the door after Aimo, deaf to Corta's questions.

"Careful, watch the openings!" Kat, crouched beside his Rekyl, raised a hand in warning. "Snipers out there. They wasted Belisha."

"Where?"

"They're firing armour-piercing rounds, got one through my firing port." Kat pointed up at a circular bullet hole in the armour plating next to his gun. "Never heard the shot."

"No, where's Belisha?" I passed behind Kat's firing position and found Belisha lying slumped against the crates the Rekyl lay on. "C'mon, gimme a hand here, Cyrano."

With Cyrano's assistance I gently laid Belisha on his back, swiping casings on the floor away beforehand. Belisha had been hit on his left cheek, the round catching the bone then splitting into fragments that had torn the skin open from ear to mouth and forcibly ripped out his teeth, the splinters burrowing through his lower jaw; nearly cleaving it in half entirely.

Certain he was dead, I said to the gathered grunts, "okay back to your positions, lads. I need two to carry him downstairs. Make sure he's covered up."

Cyrano offered to take Belisha's body. When nobody else stepped up I went to help him myself. It was surprising how heavy the human body was. Even stripped of his flak jacket I found the effort to keep Belisha's legs up monumental. Neither of us had any words to offer when we laid Belisha down in a corner of the courtyard. He was gone, and no amount of sentiment displayed would change it.

"Did you know him much?" Cyrano asked.

"No, I didn't know him." I broke the cord holding Belisha's tags around his neck. "Better that way." Pocketing the tags I pulled on Belisha's flak jacket and took his cover from where we had left it on the ground at his side. "Need it more than him."

"If you will allow me…" Cyrano got down on his knees and made as if to pray.

"Yeah, that's fine." I nodded solemnly.

Once I informed Corta of the sniper threat I passed him Belisha's ID tags without comment.

"Careth Belisha," Corta said in an undertone, "our first casualty since Rakka." This was more to himself than to anyone else. "Thank you, Sarn't."

"Sir, permission to extricate the cooks from the firing line and send 'em down to the mess to prepare a hot meal for the lads."

"That's absolutely fine, Larn. You lot keep your heads down out there now."

Such was the renewed threat that the others had forgotten who Careth Belisha was upon my return to the firing line; or appeared to at first glance. Down near the far end I found Mess Sergeant Gale and his three cooks sitting around, keeping their heads below the open firing port. All now wore their protective headgear, not wanting to share the same fate as Belisha. I did not mention it but Belisha's fatal wound was in such a place that, regardless of whether or not he had been wearing his cover, he would have been killed instantly. And I had little faith in the ability of our ceramite covers to protect our heads from armour-piercing ammunition.

"Sarn't, I need you to—" A terrific _clang_ cut me off mid-sentence. Another hole had appeared in the port a few inches above Weld's head, causing him to duck down even lower in fright, something not lost on Azar and Scurm who jeered.

"Bit lively up here now," Gale joked good-naturedly. "What can we do, Sarn't?"

"You'll like this. I want your cooks to report to the mess, make us all up some hot grub."

Gale's face lit up. "Number one, we can do that. Right, you lot?"

"Sarn't, we still ain't got no matches." Azar, peering up at the shaft of light above him, looked worried at having to move from his protected spot.

"Can I get a box o' matches over 'ere, please," I shouted back down the line. Almost immediately I was pelted by five or six tiny boxes of matches thrown in from various angles. "Whoa, alright that's enough lads." I smirked, picking the individual boxes up from the mess of brass littering the floor.

"Wha—how comes he can get loads just like that?" Azar's mouth dropped in astonishment. "I couldn't get any."

"Maybe they just don't like you, Azar," Weld grinned maliciously, sniping back at Azar.

"I reckon please and thank you might have given you the edge there, Private," Gale snorted, getting slowly to his feet. "Down to the mess now, boys, let's get cracking."

Pulling in two riflemen to man the vacant firing position, I scurried down to check up on the Tabors and the Gellens as well as pass the word that hot food would be on its way up.

"You two alright there?" I crouched in front of Peter and Woulter. "You alright for ammo?"

"We're fine thank you, Sarn't." Woulter nodded appreciatively. "Could do with some grub."

"Yeah, hot food is coming. I sent the cooks back down to the mess. They'll be on their way back up with the hot stuff soon."

"Where's Iz—?" Peter fell silent under my cold gaze.

"Upstairs. Remember the roof's out of bounds."

"What's that, hot food?" The ranking Gellen, a lance corporal, overheard. "You'd better not be fucking me about, fella."

"Yep, you heard me. Hot food will be coming round sometime, so sit tight."

"Are you the one that's been shouting the orders?" the Highlander asked, wiggling a finger in his ear as many others had been doing.

"Yeah, I'm Sarn't Larn."

"Hmph, fair enough, I'm Callum Lorne." Lorne then went on to introduce his two friends as Ben Borens and Donal Tsak. "A Company, Seventh Battalion, Ninety-Second Gellen Highlanders."

"Never heard of you. Nice covers you got there." I looked on admiringly at the floppy khaki berets with the brown tuft on top all three men wore.

"Aye. Lets 'em know who we are," Lorne's lip curled. "Y'alright, boys?"

Borens and Tsak replied in an overly raucous display of jovial grunts. None of them paying any heed to the sniper threat.

"Gotta show you flaccid farts how it's done," Lorne said mischievously.

"Yeah, have you met any o' those farts over there?" I nodded along at the neighbouring Cannon Grunts. Those nearby were giving the Highlanders some dirty looks. "Right bunch o' killers they are."

"Nah, they're nought but cum-stains on the mattress. I seen tougher bods get ploughed by sailors behind the brothel."

Unexpectedly it was laughter that drifted along the firing line. Where I had expected outrage and threats in response to the Gellens' insults, it was humour being directed back at them. Alone in keeping my composure, I instead chose to leave it at that without attempting to bring the boot down on the insubordinate Highlanders. Perhaps even the fun rivalry might divert the men from brooding over any further casualties?

"Thank god for that." I slumped down next to Aimo and dropped Belisha's cover in my lap. "Didn't know what to do about those Highlanders there; right rude bunch they are."

"Eh, they're solid enough. Bit rowdy though. Did I see those cooks taking off somewhere?"

"I—" Another loud bang as a sniper's bullet tore through the metalwork, pinging against the opposite wall and dropping into the lap of a Cannon grunt giving him a fright when the hot metal brushed his wrist.

"Yeah, hot food on the way," I announced loudly.

"Tell ya what else is on the way." Kat spoke just before the first shells arrived. The soft shu-shu-shu came in almost straight down on our heads, exploding atop the bastion ramparts into smoke, and flame, and noise. How thick was the roof above our heads? Would the shells be the type to burrow inside the stone before exploding? And if they were, then how far down would they go?

After about a quarter of an hour the command was executed faraway and the Zeke shells stopped falling in a silence that was almost as devastating as the noise had been.

"That all you got?" Kat laughed.

Aimo was tugging my arm and pointing upwards. "Oi, topside."

Too busy thinking about the lives of the men in Cannon, I realised I had forgotten about Izuru, alone, on the roof. "Anybody hurt?"

Varying negatives responses came back. The artillery had not penetrated the hard surfaces of the bastion, exploding on the outside, alleviating my fear that they were bunker-busting shells.

"Better get upstairs fast," Aimo whispered. "I'll hold everything down here."

Not bothering to check in with Corta, I leapt up the steps two at a time and came bursting out onto the roof whereupon a fierce gust of wind blew grey dust in my face. Waving a hand in a vain attempt to bat the black smoke aside, I sneezed loudly then again as dirt soared up my nose. Breaking through the cloud layer the sun shone down from high in the sky, bathing the rooftop in warm light.

"Sniper, sound off, you're number's up!" I regretted my choice of words even before they had rolled off my dry tongue, for obviously I did not want Izuru's number to be up. "You still here?"

An arm broke through a shallow grave of rubble, stretching up and pointing a finger at the sky. Throwing myself down I clawed and scraped at the sharp fragments of metal and stone that had buried Izuru, breaking fingernails and drawing blood at my fingertips. "Alright, come on, up you come." I gripped Izuru's forearm and dragged her upright, leaving a cloud of muck behind her. "Tell me where you're hit."

Sweat stained Izuru's face, showing up shiny amidst the dirt caking it. Strands of her hair were hanging loose, stuck to the flecks of blood on her cheeks and brow. With both of her eyes half-closed it seemed like she was close to falling asleep.

" _Go'une koydugum, Insan_ ," Izuru murmured.

"What?" I snapped a finger in front of her face. "Can you hear me?"

"How dare you intrude." Izuru's face twisted in a grimace. Opening her eyes fully she blinked away dust that clung to her eyelids. "I appear to be out of sorts this day." Glancing at her left arm she made the slightest of murmurs when she tried to lift it, finding it dislocated and quite useless.

"You want me to hold it?" I offered.

"No, no, stay away." Screwing her eyes shut, a tiny whimper escaped her lips as she readied herself.

"Hey, you let me help." I made to take her arm but she angrily shoved me away.

"Do not interfere," she spat, turning away, her pale face morbid. Gripping her bad arm Izuru forced her teeth together and counted to three in pained grunts, on the third count ramming her shoulder into the bastion wall, letting loose a stifled howl.

" _Bloody hell_ ," I breathed, frightened by the sobs Izuru gave when she, unsuccessfully, tried to reset the dislocation. Unable to do anything but watch, I swallowed and struggled to find a distraction. The second attempt was also for nought, with only a nasty snap produced when Izuru's shoulder connected with the wall. I fought the urge to cover my ears as her cries drove knives into my heart. On the third try there was a short _pop_ and Izuru collapsed against the wall gasping. She looked as ragged as I remembered her. Both of her sleeves were torn in places, as was her right trouserleg. It was easier to count the areas where there was no blood.

Forgoing my assistance, Izuru drew her knife and promptly sliced open the fabric around where she had taken shrapnel.

"How bad?" I shuffled closer. "Anything else out of place?"

"No cause for concern," Izuru replied phlegmatically, prying out little pieces of stone from first her thigh then both arms.

"Pfft, alright then." I got up and went across to the hatchway, setting the autocannon upright on its legs where it had been knocked over by a blast. The thing miraculously had not taken a single dent. "More important things to do than help out a wounded mate."

"Excuse me, I was out of turn."

"Yeah, you were." I came over and knelt at Izuru's side. "I just carried a mate down to the courtyard. He got wasted."

"Apologies, I am very sorry." Examining her knife, Izuru flipped it over and passed it to me. "I might ask a favour of you. See to my left shoulder."

Pulling the material around Izuru's wounded shoulder tight I made a crude cut, exposing the shrapnel-riddled flesh beneath. "Have you got to be wounded in each and every action?" I tutted, easing the point of the blade into a hole with metal inside.

"Does the word gentle not exist in your language?" A muscle went in Izuru's jaw as she felt the knife gouge her skin. "You have the hands of an unlearned beast."

"And you've got a tongue of an arrogant xenos who don't know what to do with herself." I retorted, digging the metal out clumsily. "Sorry but I'm not a medic."

Tossing the still-warm shards away, I returned Izuru's knife and let her finish cutting the rest of the shrapnel out of her body; slipping away to an unmarked section of wall that I could rest my head against.

"Need bandages, food, water?"

"Not necessary," Izuru replied in a monotone, wiping her knife down on her trouserleg and sheathing it. Then, as if a switch had been thrown, Izuru's face cracked, bursting out in emotion. "I am sorry you had to witness that. I was unprofessional. Kaela strike me down in anger."

"Nah, don't matter. Just got a bit turned around hearing you all worked up like that," I said, trailing off. After a pause, I added, getting her attention, "when I was – you know – going under, in the factory on Nemtess, I thought I weren't coming back. Martti's face was the last thing I saw." Swallowing, I continued, "I said, you won't hear another word out of me. And he didn't."

"I swear I did all I could to save him. _He_ saved me, and doing so he saved you. It wasn't something he had time to think about, he did it because he was your friend, and that is what friends do for one another. Pick the other up when they fall."

I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut, feeling myself shiver at hearing Martti's name spoken. "There it is. I'm on about Nemtess again." I struck myself in the side of the head in anger.

"You _must_ find it in you to speak about it," Izuru said almost tearfully. "Or it will be with you until your dying day; haunting you."

"What, am I confiding in you, Chaplain? You gonna cleanse me of my sins? Okay, okay, I did things on Nemtess I would not do now, bad things, things I'm not proud of." Rubbing my dry throat, I looked down at my chest, unable to meet Izuru's eye.

"As have we all."

"Y'know I thought I took on a real estate deal in the factory. Or maybe I got saddled with a plot o' land on the operating table." Sniffing, I wiped my runny nose. "Thinking maybe I'm dead. But I look around and wonder where Martti is. Why he's not here. Why I can't see him."

"I threatened my own people for you. I held a gun to their heads and swore I would kill them if they did not work to save your life," Izuru said quietly. "It is what he would have wanted."

"Life debt mean something to your lot then?" Wiping my eyes on my sleeve I cleared my throat and looked up at Izuru. "Must do 'cause I got the shock o' me life when I woke up."

"You screamed the loudest I have ever heard a person scream. You were scared. Violent. I was forced to render you unconscious for yours and others' safety.

"Explains why I woke up again with a horrible headache then uh," I snorted, trying and failing to keep my eyes dry. "There was no way it would hurt that much if I was dead."

"What did you see?" Izuru leant forwards. "Tell me what you saw, what you felt when you…"

"Nothing. I was out for what? One second, just a second my eyes were closed then – wham – bright lights above me and a stickie in my face." Wiping my hands down on my flak jacket I stared at the drying blood. "Was it punishment for me being a heretic? The darkness followed by the light?"

"You saw darkness? Is that all?"

"There weren't my god waiting for me. It was just darkness; cold darkness. Now I'm scared I'm gonna go back there soon."

"I know in my heart that this is not death. You have the body and soul of a healthy young human, and you have _life_. Spare no thoughts on what lies after it."

Rising with some effort, Izuru set her sights on the autocannon, working her hands underneath the body to lift it up.

"Hang about." I went to assist when I saw Izuru was struggling. "Got it?"

"I need no assistance," Izuru grunted, trying to pick the seven-foot long weapon up by herself.

Taking hold of the chunky muzzle brake I steadied the swaying barrel enough for Izuru to lug it over to the cover of the eastern facing wall and set it down in the shade. "Not weak to ask for help."

"It is for me, for _my_ people." Sneering Izuru pried the magazine free and checked the chamber. "You would not know." Satisfied the weapon was free of dirt Izuru covered the exposed brass with her headscarf and sat against the wall. Folding her arms she stared straight ahead, unblinking.

When I next spoke it was in a dull voice. But if my tone was flat, my words were not. "Thank you, Izuru. I am grateful for your counsel." Hesitantly I reached under the autocannon and took ahold of her hand, to which she did not object. "It's a great honour being mentored by you, Warrior Woman."

Slowly squeezing with affection rather than force as she had before Izuru nodded in warm acknowledgement, coming forth with an almost meek apology then adding, "serve your men well. Serve them better than I did mine."

Cheered that we had come to some sort of an understanding, I left Izuru keeping a vigil on the rooftop, and went back down to the company in newly-risen spirits.


	35. Chapter 34

**144th Battalion Headquarters, Kasr Jark**

Having safely seen off the Valkyrie carrying Jacklyn Molke, Ral Bleak and Tom Carillo were hanging around on a street corner, eyeing up the thickly sandbagged passageway at the far end of the street that led inside their battalion headquarters. Deterring the two medics from approaching were the pair of Solar Pattern Heavy Bolters placed around the entrance of the building ready to fill the street with 25-millimetre high explosive rounds. For a while Ral and Carillo had watched the stubby muzzles slowly traverse to the left and right, neither man packing the courage to approach.

"C'mon, let's just walk up to 'em," Carillo said agitatedly, shifting in his awkward squat on the curb. "It's our battalion HQ after all." Rubbing his arms he shivered. Both men had discarded their stolen Cadian fatigues and body armour and were left in their shirts, neither retaining their basic infantryman's equipment for the run into the city.

"Commissar's supposed to be with the OC." Ral looked down at the gun teams nervously. "And the sarn't major."

"Bloody CSM." Carillo spat into a pile of bricks. "Last thing we want. I ain't come all this way just to get wasted by the commissar or a bollocking by the sarn't major."

"Ah, I'd rather get a bollocking than a bolt to the head." Ral bounced on the balls of his feet in similar indecision. "Mister Corta's counting on us, Tom. Major Sebben isn't gonna know what happened to the company otherwise."

"Time is it?" Carillo glanced up at the rainclouds in the sky.

"I dunno." Picking himself up Ral helped Carillo to his feet. "Bet the major will know."

"No, no, no." Carillo dragged his feet behind him reluctantly, pulling against Ral's arm.

"We'll get us some scran, mate, I dunno." Ral scowled at having to haul Carillo along.

A sharp voice rang forth from behind the sandbags, halting the medics. "State your names and units."

"Cannon Company, 144th Battalion." Ral raised his hands, tossing Carillo a firm look that he was to do the same. "We're stretcher-bearers. Ral Bleak and Tom Carillo. Can we speak to our company commander please? It's Major Sebben."

"Stay where you are," the same voice replied.

"You think the major will recognise our names?" Carillo remained frozen.

"Bloody hope so, pal," Ral said out of the corner of his mouth.

"Oi, shut your mouths. What you talking about?" someone else, one of the bolter gunners, shouted.

Ral's unease was founded on the fact that throughout his short time at Rakka, Major Sebben had never actually been there in person, hence he might not recognise Ral's name when given it. Carillo, though a longer resident, Ral was also unsure of. _What a right pair of fools we'd look if they told us to bugger off_ , Ral thought, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Come on, what the hell they doing in there?" Carillo's aching arms wavered.

"Ssh, Tom, you'll make 'em nervous." Ral eyed the muzzle of the bolters poking out from between the sandbags in worry. _Just one slip and we're for it_.

Ral's hopes for admittance were dashed into the ground when the faceless voice came back and demanded that he and Carillo clear off.

"Hold on. We were with Lieutenant Corta – Simon Corta," Ral cried as Carillo tugged at his sleeve. "Second Lieutenant Corta ordered us to report here to our battalion headquarters. This _is_ our battalion headquarters. You can't just turn us away."

"Now who's making 'em nervous." Carillo shied away in fright as the bolters were trained on them.

"This is your final warning. Step away from the barricade or the provosts will be summoned."

"No use," muttered Carillo. It was now his turn to manhandle the other.

Scarpering out of the sights of the 144th battalion gunners, Carillo bundled Ral into an alcove. "Now what the hell do we do? Anyone else we know here?"

"Kraf," Ral spoke with intent, scrunching up the material of his trouserleg in his fist. "Rest of the company's heading for Kraf. How 'bout we catch us a lift on a Slick down there and try and link back up with Mister Corta and our mob? Maybe find out where they took Molke too."

"They gonna let us aboard just like that?"

"It'll have to be quiet-like. Come on."

Choosing a lift of three Valkyrie transports that were sitting on the edge of the wide landing zone out of the way of larger lifts being prepped, Ral and Carillo slipped in among the crew who were loading the transports with wounded, and busied themselves with stacking rope-handled crates of medical supplies off to one side as the first drops of rain began to fall. The ability to look like one was busy with a task was an old skill Ral knew was invaluable. It had the propensity to deflect staff NCOs from snapping a man up and giving him a lousy detail. So it was with dedication and careful hands that both men stacked the meds, appearing that they gave a damn but really only caring about the vacant seats that were rapidly diminishing inside the Slicks' troop bays. This went on until Ral caught sight of the litter cases that were waiting to be carried aboard. Letting go of one end of the box he and Carillo were carrying and – to Carillo's objections – Ral knelt beside a wounded man and sniffed at the bandage around his knee. His nose wrinkled at the smell of overripe cheese. "Sceptic." Further damning the man were the unclean bandages that had been used to cover his wounds. "Why has this man been treated with dirty bandages?"

"Run out of clean ones," a short reply came from an overworked stretcher-bearer. "He's gonna lose that leg, he will."

"Not with proper medical care." Ral spoke in a quietly calm voice that did not reflect his expression.

"Wards are all full. They've closed the operating theatre, that's why these lads here are being flown down to Kraf. More room there."

"Get me out of this rain," a litter case moaned. With bandages swathing his head, blocking his vision, and only a tiny hole with which to breathe through, the water spattering on the poor man's face must have felt like agony.

"Alright, pal." Ral pulled a waterproof cape off from where it was covering stacks of boxes and draped it over the man. "Here you go. Do you want it over your head?"

"D-don't, don't forget about me," the man rasped in a panicky voice. "Don't let me drown."

"You won't drown. It's only rain." Carillo said soothingly. "Be over in no time."

"Can we go inside?"

"Yeah, sure, Tom, give me a hand here." Ral bent down to pick up one end of the stretcher, pausing for Carillo to take the other. "Okay and lift."

Bringing the stretcher up the lowered ramp into the Slick's troop bay, Ral eased his half of the stretcher onto a foldout shelf bolted to the bulkhead and fastened the man in. "There, you'll be right as rain soon."

"God-Emperor bless your soul."

"Nowhere near enough space to get 'em all out," Carillo said in a low murmur once he and Ral had left the tight confines of the Slick and were back in the drizzle. Raising his collar Carillo held it tightly around his neck. "Don't suppose they've been here all night do you?"

The answer came unexpectedly from one of the nearby stretcher-bearers. "Been here since midnight, the lot of them."

Ral started angrily. "How – how can you…?"

"Ral, Ral." Carillo nudged Ral urgently. "Brass."

"Huh?" Ral caught sight of a pair of officers accompanied by two Cadians bearing a sizable crate between them. All four wore the green beret of the Intelligence Corps.

"Oh shit, that's the bloody colonel from Rakka." Carillo dropped into a crouch and turned his back, wary of being recognised. "Ral? Ral!" His heart leapt into his mouth when Ral, instead of making himself inconspicuous, made a beeline for the officers, heading to cut them off from the adjacent Slick they were boarding.

"Sir? Colonel?" Ral called loudly.

It was the other officer accompanying the colonel who spoke first. His tone was not inviting. "Mind yourself there, Private."

Ignoring the captain, Ral tried to make eye contact with the colonel. "S'cuse me, Colonel, I'm—"

Responding in just as cold a manner, the colonel stopped and turned to confront Ral. "Not now, Private. Now move aside."

"Please, ma-am. I'm Ral Bleak, I'm Cannon Company, 144th Battalion—" Ral blurted.

"Step back now, Private," the captain glared.

"…Cannon Company?" The colonel held up a hand to silence her subordinate. "Who are you?"

Ral repeated himself, adding his rank, number, and commanding officer.

"Lieutenant Corta commands?" The colonel frowned. "What of Captain Meller? Does he not still command the company in your major's absence?"

"I'm sorry, ma-am. Captain Meller was killed in an air-raid. Rakka's gone. We're down to about sixty men."

"Well, that is unfortunate, Private Bleak. You must be thankful your company was able to take shelter here."

"We weren't, ma-am. Private Carillo and I brought a wounded company man into Jark just before they closed the gates. Mister Corta and Cannon were left outside. They're probably making for Kraf now."

"Did Lieutenant Corta send you ahead to report to your battalion headquarters?" The colonel watched Ral steadily. "Private?"

"Uh, yes, ma-am. They wouldn't let us into HQ. They didn't know who we were."

"Ma-am, time." The captain indicated his chrono.

"You." The colonel pointed at Carillo who was still keeping his distance. "That man, come here."

"His name's Carillo, ma-am," Ral said quietly.

"Follow us aboard, the both of you."

"Ma-am?"

"I feel I owe Cannon Company a debt of gratitude. You and Private Carillo will ride with my party down to Kasr Kraf, where you will make yourselves useful with the wounded."

Keeping his eyes on the ground, Carillo muttered, "thank you, ma-am."

The captain's reaction to his superior inviting the two scruffy privates onto the Slick with her was to immediately poke at their dress. "And where are your jackets, you two? Your equipment is absent, your body armour, your covers. Why should we not run you in to the provosts for being out of uniform?"

"Thank you, Captain Ruth. Let us be away from this city." The colonel waited for Captain Ruth to board the Slick then beckoned to the two Cadians bearing the container between them. "Smartly now."

With the addition of the odd container to the packed troop bay, a member of the crew waved to the colonel, saying, "sorry, ma-am, we're overloaded here as is. We'll remove a litter case for you."

"That will not be necessary. I shall board another ship," the colonel shouted over the growing whine of the twin turbofans.

"I would like to register a complaint about the treatment of the wounded," Ral said in a raised voice, dashing after the colonel as she made to board another Slick. "Those men back on the landing ground have been waiting for evacuation since midnight. It appears they've been left alone all this time. I saw for myself wounds that had turned sceptic—"

"And what would you have me do, Private?" The colonel turned to face Ral on the vibrating ramp, having to shout over the roar. "The wounded are not my concern. You may remain here and tend for them, that is your choice, Private. I will not force you to board. This is a gesture of goodwill."

"Come on, Ral," Carillo pleaded. "We can't do anything else here, let's just go."

Signals from the Slick's crew chief brought the ramp off the ground. His mouthed words were lost over the howl to everybody not on intercom. Sliding into the only vacant bucket seats by the open hatch, Ral, Carillo, and the colonel slapped harnesses over their chests and drew them tight. Without sound-dampening headsets, Ral and Carillo could only communicate to each other across the bay in facial expressions. Shaking his head sadly, Ral paid the wounded left behind one last look before the ship lifted up into the sky. Carillo, though encouraged by the benevolence of the intelligence colonel, closed his eyes and bowed his head, disheartened at his comrades' suffering and brimming with anguish that he could do nothing to help.

After an unspecified amount of time had passed in the air, Carillo, sitting next to the colonel asked how long the flight was. Glancing sidelong at Carillo, the colonel stared blankly at him.

"How long is the flight, ma-am?" he shouted in her ear.

Forgoing trying to converse verbally, the colonel displayed four fingers on her gloved hand then four fingers and her thumb.

"Four, five, forty-five minutes?" Carillo looked on in confusion.

The colonel nodded, mouthing, "patience, Private."

 _Come on, we're sitting ducks down here._ Carillo's knee jiggled incessantly as he looked down at the war-torn countryside south of Kasr Jark. Across from him, Ral seemed to be nodding off and looked content. _Don't know how he can be so calm. And enough to fall asleep!_ Carillo met Ral's eye and shrugged. Ral winked and tucked his chin on his breast.

A strange pattering, like fingernails tapping on a hard surface had the Slick's passengers exchanging nervous looks. In contrast to Carillo, Ral seemed unfazed. Similarly stoic was the colonel whose expression was one of calm indifference. Licking his lips anxiously, Carillo saw sharp, needle-thin tracers flying up from the ground, close enough to the ship that near-misses caused buffeting. Not overly devout, Carillo nevertheless leant as far forwards in the uncomfortable bucket seat as he could and said a prayer, clasping his hands together tightly and clamping his jaw shut, wishing he could shut his ears to the growing clamour.

Black clouds, bursting with a dull _crump_ made Carillo try and worm his way deeper into his seat. Not so fortunate to have restraining harnesses the stretcher cases instead held onto one another where their wounds permitted. _How long have we been flying?_ Carillo wondered. _How has Zeke moved south past Jark already? Why are they shooting at unarmed transports?_

Thinking so hard it hurt, Carillo clapped a hand over his eyes, feeling sick at the unnatural juddering, enough to make him double over and cover his ears.

A sharp crack, loud enough to be heard by everyone, brought Carillo's head jerking up. _Are we hit?_ Having only a clear view of what the Slick had just flown over, Carillo glanced around, not bothering to hide his fear-filled face from Ral or the colonel. Devoid of all moisture, Carillo's throat contracted. His stomach lurched when the view of the plains below tilted, or rather the Slick started to bank lazily, drawing him out of his seat before the harness caught him.

 _Are we going down?_ Carillo tugged at where the harness was cutting into his shoulders. The whole thing seemed too gradual than what he imagined a crash-landing would be like. Ral, as calm as ever, leant forwards, put his head between his knees and his hands behind his head. Unsure of whether he was supposed to emulate him, Carillo stared, listening to the steadily increasing pitch of the engines. At the last second the colonel shoved Carillo's head down to his knees and pressed his hands so that they were firmly behind his head. Squeezing his eyes shut, Carillo held his breath and braced for the impact.

* * *

 **Bastion 33, 13:56**

For the third hour the world outside the bastion was subjected to the Zeke mortars which hammered on the plain, the walls, and the roof; a never-ceasing drumbeat where each report was felt from the ceiling down to the foundations.

Seeking solitude, I left the company and took the winding stairs upwards, avoiding the CP where Corta and D'ambrosia were both taking the respite to record the days' events in their units' respective diaries. Sitting a safe distance from the sealed hatch in case of a direct hit was Izuru. Perhaps anticipating company Izuru had moved the bulk of the autocannon so it was resting against the wall, leaving a space clear beside her. Aside from a small nod Izuru's demeanour remained cool when I approached, greeting me without a word. Also keeping my silence I sat down on the cold step, resting my Kazalak between my knees, propping my cover at my feet, and staring away into space, listening to the steel orchestra raining down outside.

"What holds your thoughts?" Izuru spoke aloud once a long period with neither of us speaking had gone by.

"Uh?"

"What are you thinking?"

Giving Izuru a tired smile, I said, "you know what I'm thinking. You're a psyker, aren't you? Read my thoughts like a book."

"Intrusion of the mind is considered one of the most heinous of transgressions in Eldar society. Only by express permission may a being enter another's consciousness. By my soul, I would never force my way across your mental threshold."

"Well, it's open. Gonna be a blank page of nothing, but you're welcome to it."

"And what would I expect to find?" A slow trace of a smile materialised. "What does the human fighting man think of when he is at a loose end?"

"Nothing no decent folk would ever dwell upon," I replied, tugging at the hard collar of my flak jacket away from where it rubbed against my neck.

"I do not like the use of that double negative." Izuru snorted quietly, expelling air from her nostrils. "Would I be intruding if I inquired as to your spouse?"

"Spouse?" I pulled a face. "What d'you mean?"

"Have you no mate in bondage? Parents that raised you? Siblings you quarrelled and brawled with over trivialities?"

"Mmm." Feeling put on the spot by Izuru's probing I tilted my head to one side and scratched behind my ear. "No to the first one, no to the third one."

"Parents?"

"Dunno," I said, holding my gaze elsewhere, wishing Izuru would stop. "Dunno."

"All soldiers should be loved, else there is little to draw them home when the fighting is done. A being that fights for coin or for bloodlust has no honour. Love and commitment, now they are noble."

"You're not gonna find either o' those here," I said scornfully, "ain't no love nor commitment on Cadia. They buried—"

"—Love in a mass grave," Izuru finished. "Yes, so you said. But stop and rethink, I beg you. Those men downstairs whom you lead, where is your commitment to them? Do you not call them friend?"

"Izuru, I…" I paused, taking a slow breath. "Your friends are the guys you start off with. Anyone else that comes along isn't worth getting to know."

"And attitudes such as yours shall gain you no friends." Izuru's face hardened. Gazing at me seriously, she said, "you know their names. And you know why they fight."

Slapping a hand across my knee I retorted in frustration. "We fight because we're told to. We don't get a choice. We can't all be elite, all-volunteer Rangers. Some of us – most of us – get a shit detail with the draft board and then onto god knows where to fight a war we don't understand or care about."

"Aimo, Cyrano, Leo Wind, Otto Rinek. Those that were in your company upon our departure from Nemtess—"

"Half of 'em wasted. You know, you saw Rinek's body. Bloody hung himself 'cause he lost all his mates. Felt like doing the same after Rakka…"

Reaching across, Izuru grasped my arm, a fierce look appearing. "Don't. _Don't_."

Taken aback by her use of the contractions I blanched, afraid to look her in the eye.

"Keladi haunts my thoughts always. But I see it is you whom I must protect still, and from your very self."

"Nah, nah, I'm alright," I said firmly, "it was cowardly, yeah I know, but I swear I'm gonna make it my first call to find Jacklyn Molke and apologise when this is over."

"You will cast yourself at his feet and beg forgiveness. Do you understand me?" Izuru relaxed her grip on my arm and sat back. "You are not the same man as you were at Rakka. Swallow your pride and speak humbly."

"I will. I will, I promise." I nodded in the utmost sincerity. "Aimo, Cyrano, Kat, Woulter, Peter. Good bunch o' blokes. Dunno whether I'd know 'em in civvy street but I'd fly into the Eye of Terror with 'em if we was ordered to."

"Very good. I am proud—" Izuru faltered, catching herself, continuing in a near-whisper. "Your grammar…"

"Yeah, I've got parents. Least I did last year," I said, mishearing Izuru, "mother and father and me."

"I hope you are reunited. _Killithikadya._ " Izuru lapsed briefly into her own dialect. "The near-future."

"Something else too…" I counted upwards on my fingers. "I'm twenty this year."

"And I am 406."

"400 and you've not the caught the grey yet?" I smirked. "Not too bad."

"Such an insult against a being's honour must be settled with swords," Izuru said coolly, "at dawn."

"So we've got all night then?" I raised my eyebrows in anticipation of Izuru's reaction which was as if I had backhanded her in the face.

"You have the cheek of an undisciplined youth without the guidance of a path, and the nerve of a braggart without accomplishment." Izuru stared at me icily.

"Oh, I'd be bringing this along too." I held up my Castra, hanging on its sling at my left hip.

"Only a low-born human without honour would bring a grenade launcher to a sword fight." Izuru eyed the grenade launcher with acute disdain. "Just like the rest of your race."

"Mm, yeah, I wouldn't have made it this far if I'd fought with honour," I said lightly, "now they _did_ bury honour in a mass grave somewhere back along the line. We're a bunch o' scumbags, Izuru, case you didn't notice. I'm thinking you've got a bit o' the blue blood in you too, the way you talk down to me. I reckon you're a lady or something."

Sighing, Izuru said, "my father was…"

"Your father was?"

"My father was Amonther Numerial."

"Was he some sort of lord?"

"A ranger among rangers – a pathfinder."

"And your mother?"

Shaking her head solemnly, Izuru brushed off the question and instead asked, "how does the Duchess of Asteri Reach sound to you?"

"Sounds a bit uppity."

"I agree. I detest titles, the way beings must list off each and every one of their names, accomplishments, retainers, lackeys." Grimacing, Izuru added, "craftworld politics revile me. Such a corrupt nest of schemers, sycophants, and sexual favours."

"Sexual favours?" My stomach lurched at hearing the words.

"Macha would do anything to get her way, all the while keeping up the pretence of being a virgin. Of course now she has the fleet. Where it was destined for Cadia, it is now on the way to her home, Biel-Tan, and our plan to assist your battlefleet lies in ruins."

"I gave you the Moses to fight Macha. Sorry it weren't enough," I said apologetically, feeling the weight of the stub pistol on my hip.

"Do not apologise," Izuru said, a shadow crossing her features. "I would have dearly loved to have placed a slug between Macha's eyes, the preening _bitch_."

The darkness in her eyes passing, Izuru looked up and smiled, her eyes twinkling. "No, I shall be the one to apologise. Let us not brood on the past."

Letting silence take hold again, I waited, listening to the rumble of thunder.

"Pass me your rifle, I pray thee." Izuru's outstretched fingers brushed my Kazalak's flash hider.

Tilting the rifle out of her reach, I asked her why.

"I would perform alterations if you would permit me."

"…What?" Suspicious, I kept a tight hold on the rifle's barrel.

"You will find it most satisfactory." Izuru smiled. "Trust me."

Debating, I looked from Izuru's eager hands to my rifle. "Hm, alright."

"Gratitude." Izuru waited for me to clear the Kazalak's magazine and chamber before accepting the weapon.

"The um, the little lads alright then?" I asked gently, keeping a curious eye on Izuru's fingers as they worked a loop in the canvas sling and tightened it around the narrowest point on the buttstock.

"They are safe. Far away, but safe," Izuru replied without pause.

"Your old man?"

"My old man…?"

"Sorry, your husband, uh mate." I was unsure how the Eldar referred to partners. The very notion was unfamiliar to me.

"This configuration is suited for a being that favours the left hand." Briskly Izuru fastened the sling's leather loop around the KA's cleaning rod underneath the barrel. "Observe." Pulling the sling around her neck Izuru pointed the KA's muzzle downwards and held the rifle tilted to one side with such fluidity to suggest that she was ambidextrous. "Are you watching?"

Nodding, I watched Izuru raise the weapon and wrap the loose section of sling around her forearm and tuck her cheek into the stock. "I see. That'll help. Thanks."

"You are welcome." With a glum look Izuru passed the Kazalak back to me.

"Don't – don't answer that," I gabbled, anxious that Izuru might take the personal question the wrong way. "Can't be asking questions like that; rude of me."

Folding her arms across her assault vest Izuru bowed her head.

"Stay your hand. I seek no comfort from you," Izuru hissed with alarming venom when I made to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. Unbuttoning the cuff of her right sleeve Izuru drew the material back and thrust her arm at me. Upon Izuru's thin wrist were many criss-crossing scars, all a faded white. "My recent crimes pale in comparison to that which sealed my bondmate's fate."

Blinking rapidly I felt my throat dry up seeing the mess of scars. Were they self-inflicted?

"I existed." Izuru revealed her other wrist, as slender as the other but bearing just as many marks. Withdrawing quickly, Izuru covered her wrists and buttoned both cuffs, tucking her hands underneath her arms. "A blight upon my people; the Runt of Alaitoc."

"Sorry," I muttered.

Footsteps on the stairs drew my attention away from Izuru.

"Hello, anyone up there?"

"Sarn't Larn," I called back loudly. "What is it?"

"Corporal Garst wants you. Zeke's bringing a gun up."

"Coming."

Groaning at my numb muscles I strained under the weight of my flak, gear, and weapons to stand up. An odd jerk at my side put me off-balance. Looking down I saw Izuru had hold of the barrel of my Castra and was keeping me in place.

"Alright, I need you to assume your firing position once this rain stops. Wait for firing orders, okay?" I pried at Izuru's fingers then bent to retrieve my cover. "C'mon, Izuru, cover's going back on."

"Understood." Heeding my plea for a return to professionalism Izuru promptly let go and turned to review the autocannon. "Be vigilant."

Near-bounding down the stairs, I narrowly avoided colliding with a Cannon grunt whose name I did not know. "Corporal Garst wants me you say?"

"Yes, Sergeant, it looks like Zeke brought a gun up during the barrage. They're just unlimbering."

Cursing to myself I realised the noise had faded completely, leaving in its place a queer silence. Mindlessly chatting with Izuru was getting in the way of my duty as a sergeant. _It mustn't happen again,_ I fumed, angry at the distraction she posed.

"Name, Private?" I asked the young man.

"Rhidian, Sergeant."

I remembered hearing name on the march south. Rhidian was the one that had spotted Izuru, or at least believed he had spotted her. His eyes might come in useful in future. And I would need to keep my eye on him too.

"What's Zeke up to?" I said to Aimo on reaching his firing position. Picking my field glasses from their pouch I scanned the far horizon.

"Uh, eleven o' clock, about 800 yards, see the big gunshield." Aimo pointed past where his IM was resting amidst spent brass thickly covering the crates "You see?"

Nothing more than a faint shape and near-hugging the ground was an angled gunshield protecting the Zeke crew who were working to lay the trails out behind their piece.

"Yep, anti-tank gun. Well spotted, Aimo." I clapped Aimo on the shoulder and stepped back from the opening.

"Private Rhidian spotted the gun first, Sarn't."

 _Interesting, his eyesight must be phenomenal._

Giving Rhidian a curt nod of appreciation, I said to Aimo, "did you inform Mister Corta about the gun?"

"Not yet, Sarn't."

Of course he had not been to Corta. However fragmented the company was there was still a chain of command to follow.

"Anything happening?" Lieutenant Corta, bareheaded, looked up from his diary when I entered the CP.

"Activity out on the plain, sir. Zeke's setting up an anti-tank gun."

Jumping to his feet Corta snatched up his field glasses and headed for the firing port, closely followed by D'ambrosia.

"Cheeky buggers, they're setting up opposite us," Corta exclaimed. "Right, I'm not having that. Larn, bring a gun team in here and set up a firing position."

"We shall need more than rifles and automatics to suppress that gun," said D'ambrosia. "Is that mercenary still on the roof?"

"Yes, ma-am," I said, "she's standing-by."

"What else has she done other than standby up there?" D'ambrosia looked to Corta for support in denouncing Izuru. Corta however ignored her stare and looked to me. "I give the sniper my authorisation to fire one shot at the gun team. Pass that on would you, Sarn't?"

"Sir!" Like Izuru would worry about authorisation before initiating contact.

Haring back up the stairs, my Castra bouncing against my hip, I found the rooftop considerably worse for wear than before the barrage. Ragged chunks had been taken out of the wall and direct hits to the surface had dug shallow holes, forming an uneven landscape of rubble and torn-up metal that scratched at the leather on my boots like thistles. Struggling to forge a path I squatted and pressed on forwards, coming down on my stomach next to Izuru.

"It's me," I whispered, despite the redundancy of doing so. "Got a target for you."

"I eagerly await it," Izuru replied flatly, flipping the lense covers off the optics on the side of the cannon's receiver and slotting in the magazine. With such a powerful recoil spring the cannon used a ratchet crank instead of a straight-pull bolt handle to cock it. Unlocking the crank, Izuru wound it three times with ease despite the stiffness. As she did so the cannon's telescoping barrel slid back and the ejection port opened, showing the large cartridges ready to be fed into the chamber. Satisfied the weapon was cocked Izuru performed the three turns on the crank in the opposite direction and set it back into its slot.

Taking a moment to reacquire the distant gun, I said, "Zeke anti-tank gun, 800 yards, one round. You got target?"

"Presently." Izuru murmured, adjusting the range dial.

Under her breath she began to sing, something I found quietly unsettling. "You got target?"

"Seen." Izuru glanced across at me. "Beware the report. Cover your ears or retire."

"Right." Pressing two fingers into my ears I awaited the inevitable thunderclap. "What about you?" Izuru wore no hearing protection of any kind. "You'll blow your eardrums out."

"I have total control over my senses. It is likewise a blessing and a curse. Now cover your ears."

Replacing my fingers in my ears I waited. Lying motionless Izuru steadied her breathing, lowering her heartbeat in preparation for the shot.

 _Come on, take the bloody shot._

I fidgeted impatiently, silently willing Izuru to open fire before the Zeke gunners commenced firing upon us. What occurred next was somewhere within the lines of a short, sharp thunderclap sounding right next to me, ringing my ears even with my fingers shoved inside the cavities. A sizable puff of smoke was expelled sideways from the cannon's muzzle brake, and the recoil shoved Izuru backwards an inch. Shooting out from the ejection port, the smoking 20-millimetre casing struck me on my forearm. Even through the two layers of clothing I still felt the extreme warmth of the brass, compelling me to slap the spot where the casing had hit and cry out.

Lightheaded and dizzy I wiped my smarting eyes on my sleeve, noticing Izuru was watching me expectantly, herself not effected in the least by the tremendous report.

"Well? Observe the results," Izuru said in a faraway voice, pointing her fore and index finger at her eyes then out at the gun.

My field glasses wavering in my hands I scrutinised the Zeke gun, watching for any movement. Unable to compensate for the glasses' weak magnification I assumed Izuru had put the gun out of action for there was no movement around it where there had been before the round had scored its mark.

"Uhh, hit?" I blinked away my blurry vision. "Think you got it. Cracking shot, Izuru."

Not convinced, Izuru ignored me and crawled forwards far enough that she was right up beside the gently-smoking muzzle brake. "One hit to the right upper section of the gunshield. I am fully certain the weapon's sights were rendered inoperable," she said confidently before crawling backwards.

"How the f—? How do you see that far?" I stared through the glasses; astonished at the range Izuru's eyes could see out to unassisted.

Working her scarf around her head, Izuru said, "we were the favoured species."

 _Here we go. The old arrogance rises again._ I looked away fuming.

"And then we weren't." Without intention Izuru pressed a hand to her side, a pained look quickly passing before she assumed her usual unflappable persona.

"Don't like your use of the contraction," I grinned slowly, jiggling a finger around in my ear. "You'd tell me if you was hurt, wouldn't you?"

"Bruising, nothing to concern yourself with."

"Okay. I'll tell Mister Corta you put the gun out of action."

"Any luck spiking that gun?" Lieutenant Corta asked when I reported back to the CP.

Seeing D'ambrosia was giving me a baleful stare, I replied woodenly, "sir, the sniper engaged the Zeke anti-tank gun and disabled it with one round fired."

"Ah, very good," Corta glanced at D'ambrosia and smiled. "Well we must be thankful we have such a skilled markswoman in our company."

Not sharing her fellow officer's newfound respect, D'ambrosia glared at me. "I would like to speak with the mercenary in person. Sergeant, bring her down here to the CP. I have questions I want her to answer."

"And what would you expect her to reply with, Leesha? She is a mercenary, coin is her master."

"That is exactly why I do not trust her. A being that fights for money over all else cannot be trusted to remain loyal to our cause."

"Ma-am," I began, inadvertently cutting across Corta who shot me with a surprised glance. "We don't have to trust her for long. She's just doing a job here then moving onto the next one."

"And how would you be privy to this mercenary's affairs?" D'ambrosia stalked around the table and over to me. "What information have you divulged that we do not know about?"

"Leesha, Larn is my sergeant, I shall be the one to question him on the matter," Corta said levelly.

"Tell me." D'ambrosia's voice had lowered. "Tell me," she raised her voice a little without dispensing of the threat. When I remained silent D'ambrosia rested her hand upon her holstered laspistol.

"Lieutenant D'ambrosia, please excuse me. I would speak with my sergeant in private." Corta's expression hardened. "I respect you up until the point where you begin threatening my non-commissioned officers. Remove your hand from your holster."

"We will see about this," D'ambrosia whispered.

Once the Siphani had left, Corta perched on the edge of the table and faced me squarely. "Give me the mercenary's name, her unit, and why she is alone, Larn."

Thinking quickly I came out with a made up – and human-sounding – name. "Her name is Eliza James, sir. She's operating alone on Cadia."

"Eliza James, right. Now, yes I understand that she is operating alone on Cadia. To which mercenary organisation is she loyal?"

"The 2nd Cyrric Rangers, sir. She's a captain."

"A captain?" Corta stared at me in disbelief. "What would a captain be doing without a company to command?"

"She – she lost her company… somewhere, I dunno where."

"And how long have you known her, Sarn't?"

"Sir?"

"You bought her in, so I will hazard a guess that you have had past dealings with her. Now be truthful here, Sarn't. Were these dealings with Captain James in any way intimate?"

Closing my eyes, I shook my head earnestly, overcome with embarrassment. "No, sir."

"What have you told her? Any unit configurations, troop numbers or dispersion?"

"She's not a spy, sir," I said through gritted teeth. "Not a spy."

"I have your word, and only yours, Larn." Corta regarded me almost with pity. "How long has this been going on?"

"Since Rakka, sir."

"Where – I understand – you went out beyond the wire on several occasions, and as any witnesses to your activities out there are no longer with us, I cannot rely on any statement but yours. Now tell me, did you encounter Captain James on more than one of these excursions?"

A vice was squeezing my throat, choking me of oxygen. "Yes, sir, only once."

"And that is the truth?"

"Yes, sir, she helped me escape the minefield after Rakka too…"

"Alright, tell me straight: did Captain James seduce you?"

"No. _No, sir."_ I flushed. "Absolutely not."

"Then why is she still here? If not because she has you in her pocket then what else?"

"She's looking for a friend, sir, another merc that got captured on Cadia Primus."

"She gave you that story?"

"Sir."

An outcry from Wharton halted the grilling I was receiving. "Sir, flashes on the horizon."

"We will continue this conversation later, Sarn't." Corta leapt to his feet. "Stay away from the rooftop and return to your position."

I bumped into Perandis on the way out. He was carrying the stubber that Corta had ordered emplaced in the CP's firing port. "Mind yourself, Larn."

"Sorry, Staffy," I said with a sinking heart. Perandis of course would be required as the senior NCO in the company to side with Corta, so I could not count on him to back me up.

"Smoke bombardment," Corta exclaimed. "Zeke's getting clever."

 _Smoke?_ Zeke was looking to close the range between us and him before initiating an assault. The vast amount of bodies lying out on the plain would have persuaded even the most callous brigade commander to review his tactics and employ more cautious measures than simply rushing us.

"Right, lads, find your firing positions. Get ready!" I shouted down the firing line.

"Ready to give Zeke his arse-whipping again, lads?" Aimo added loudly, to ragged cheers.

The display of high morale confused me for there was no commissar breathing down our necks, ready to pop a bolt into our skulls for not displaying the correct lack of enthusiasm.

"Alright there, mate?" Aimo beamed.

"Yeah." I nodded vaguely. "Fire on Mister Corta's order. Watch your ammo and barrel count."

"Mmm, got a present for ya, hand 'em over, Colvin."

"I'm Arrigo, Corporal." Arrigo picked up two Kazalak magazines, the pair I had run through in the earlier contact, and handed them to me. Both had been reloaded and were heavy with .374 rounds. Instead of steel-cased cartridges, the rounds were brass with black tips and red bands.

"Found some three-seven-four kicking about – Rhidian found 'em I should say. Right proper scrounger that lad is."

"Hmph, make him a lance," I said half-jokingly.

"Those slugs you got there are armour-piercing incendiary. Good for wasting Zekes in body armour," Aimo enthusiastically pointed out.

"Yeah, ta." I pocketed the two magazines in the pockets of my flak vest. "Number one."

"All good?" Aimo looked up at me with concern in his eyes. "Someone giving you grief?"

"Never mind that. You concentrate on Zeke. He's gonna be closing the gap through this smoke barrage, so aim for his ugly mug when he pops out; same for all of you."

Clapping my hands I moved past the gun teams and their supporting riflemen, urging anybody not behind a rifle to find one and aim it out of a firing port in Zeke's direction. Down at the end of the row I came upon Peter being instructed on barrel-changing a Rekyl by Lorne and the Highlanders. "Come on, what's this? Get the Rekyl back together and get it sighted."

"Gonna be here all month at this rate." Lorne snorted. Peter did not seem to be doing very well at changing the barrel for there was a lot of fumbling and quiet swearing involved. "Thirty-two seconds, my nan could do it faster and she's got arthritis."

"Oi, we're getting contact very shortly, so stop pissing about. Get this weapon reassembled," I spoke quietly but authoritatively, feeling it was more of a corporal's job to shout and be generally nasty than a sergeant's.

"Yes, Sergeant," Peter groaned, wiggling the barrel by its wooden carry handle, trying to insert it into the weapon.

"Put it in gently – yeah that's it. Now push the barrel catch down."

"Okay." Peter did as he was told, suddenly finding it a lot easier.

"Magazine cover off, now put your load back in and you're ready to go."

"Forty-one seconds," Lorne muttered to me once Peter had returned the Rekyl to him and taken up position with his father on the gun team's flanks. "Got a lot to learn, that one."

"And how fast you do it in?" I asked, unimpressed.

"Nine."

Hearing a crash upon the roof that could not have been a smoke round, I tensed. Lorne, seeing this, laughed and took up position behind his Rekyl.

"Stonking us with HE now are they?" Kat sneered. "Trying to blast us out?"

"Don't give them ideas!" Cyrano snapped.

"Nah, they're too scared to fight us one-one-one, that's what."

Patting Kat on the shoulder, I said in his ear, "standby."

With the smoke spreading and the mortars banging above our heads, we waited with safeties off and fingers on triggers for the assault. At one point we were paid a welcome visit by the cooks who brought around a heated lunch inside covered mess tins. Refusing the steaming compo offered to me by Scurm, I wanted to make it clear that everybody else had to eat first before I did.

"Okay, Sergeant, suit yourself. Um, you haven't seen Sergeant Gale, have you?" Scurm asked a little worriedly.

"Isn't he…?" I saw that only Azar and Weld were with Scurm. Gale had not come up to us. "Down in the mess?"

"No, Sergeant."

"How long's he been gone?"

"'Bout twenty minutes, Sergeant."

"Fine." Not concerning myself with Gale's whereabouts, I made it clear that I wanted all three cooks to rejoin the firing line once their mess detail was finished.

"Yes, Sarn't, we'll be there." Scurm swallowed his reluctance and nodded.

"Number one. Clear off now."

Taking position between Aimo's IM and Kat's Vraks I tugged my Castra's sling over my head and leant it against the wall beside my feet, reckoning I would need to use it soon to thin out the hordes of Zeke. Caught in setting the safety of my Kazalak, I ducked instinctively when streams of automatic gunfire, flying from the smoke, hammered against the armour plates on the outer wall, stitching sharp, metallic notes upon the surface.

 _Bastards are using tracer,_ I thought. _They want us to fire back and give our positions away_.

Firing discipline was maintained, and the Zeke weapons teams continued to blast away from their positions hidden behind the growing wall of smoke without relent. A flask of spirits was passed around by Lieutenant Corta who maintained an air of calmness and joviality, cracking a few jokes here and there. Upon reaching me Corta offered up the flask as he had every other man. "Sarn't, care for a swig?"

"Mm, better not, sir. Want to keep a clear head." True. My tolerance for alcohol was non-existent, and I was unaware of the strength of the spirits. An alcohol-addled NCO during a contact would boot me straight back down to the depths of the Other Ranks' domain. And I had been back and forth between there on enough occasions.

"Oh, it's not strong stuff," Corta, strangely friendly despite our disagreement regarding Izuru, insisted.

It was my turn now to insist. "I'm alright, sir. Can't hold my drink."

"Ah." Corta smiled knowingly. "Well I'd advise you avoid the NCO's mess in future – and keep that to yourself."

"Right, sir."

One of the Highlanders, Lorne, called out from his firing position. "Contact. Zeke!"

"Fire on my command!" Corta drew his whistle and popped it into his mouth. "Ready?"

Eyeing the smoke cloud which was holding at near-150 yards from the bastion wall, I adjusted my KA's tangent sights along to the 200 metre mark and aimed at roughly body height. At the appearance of Zeke's loosely-spaced vanguard, an assault company several hundred strong, Lieutenant Corta raised his arm in preparation to give the fire order, pausing to fill his lungs.

"OPEN FIRE!"

Choruses of the fire command repeated up and down the firing line as automatics, rifles, and lasguns opened up, working the previously-established beaten zones. Not two seconds had passed when bright flashes preceded sharper, deeper reports of howitzers firing at extreme range from across the canal, their spotters picking out our tracer through the smoke and relaying our locations to the gunners.

The first incoming shell collided with the outer wall, sending a powerful shockwave through the bastion, but however severe the damage inflicted was we had no way of telling. The follow-up shots, as accurate as the first ranging shot, caused further disruption to the output of fire, reducing the intensity we had consistently maintained in previous firefights. One explosion, going off dangerously close to Kat's firing port made him slump over his Vraks, dazed enough that Cyrano had to take over firing.

"Keep going!" Corta shouted, himself joining in beside me, sending single shots and short bursts of .45 into the Zeke vanguard with his Lecta, somewhat optimistically due to the range. Running through a magazine Corta tapped me on the shoulder and said in my ear, "I'm going to check on Perandis and the Siphanis. Keep this up."

"Yes, sir," I replied over the noise in my ears, adjusting my rifle's sights for the reduced range we were now engaging Zeke at.

As our spirited defence flagged under the accurate and continuous howitzer bombardment, something we were powerless to counter, Zeke slowly exploited our lowered rate of fire, and used it to press forwards, drawing to within seventy-five yards of the gate, now applying their own weapons teams on their flanks to suppress ours. _Come on, Izuru, shake a leg._ I had not heard the distinct report of the autocannon at all during the contact. It seemed like nothing was going on on top of the bastion's roof. Was she sleeping?

Gunsmoke now filled the entire bastion corridor. The floor was awash with shell casings, frantically-dumped empty magazines, powerpacks, and steel belt links spat from ejection ports. Ragged coughing came from grunts starved of clean air. Smoke rose from barrels, some in serious danger of warping due to acquired heat from firing so much. The first to go was the Vraks. Kat, feeding for Cyrano, screamed savagely when the barrel ruptured, rendering the weapon inoperable over lack of spares.

"Bloody Vraks is gone!" Kat cried after spitting out several oaths.

"Use your rifle then." Cyrano plucked the smoking gun back from the firing port and snatched up an M-36.

"Fucking useless." Kat jabbed the muzzle of his .338 through the opening and began firing with Cyrano.

Attempting to be as conservative as possible with my ammunition, I dumped my sole magazine of .374 ball and snapped in one of the API loads but withheld from firing, scooting across to Aimo.

"How's ammo?"

Deafened momentarily from the loudness of the clattering IM, Aimo kicked around on the floor, pushing shell casings about as he searched for fresh belts of cartridges.

"Two belts left, Sarn't," Arrigo indicated the ammunition belt he had thrown over his shoulder, as well as the belt Colvin had ready.

More ammunition would need to be located, and fast. Checking with the other gun teams produced similar reports. Rifle ammunition was in plentiful supply for there were a few crates of loose rounds at close hand, each containing 300 cartridges apiece. What there was not was the time to load the empty magazines which were also in abundance, Zeke having closed to fifty yards and showing no sign of retiring; fully committing himself to achieving his goal of the bastion.

Takking Peter and Rhidian away I sent them back to find ammunition, Peter because I felt like he needed the respite and Rhidian for his knack at scrounging.

"Keep it up, lads," I shouted, changing my KA for my Castra and delivering a quick 40-millimetre HE into the thickening ranks of Zekes. It was like grabbing a fistful of ants out of the main swarm. Immediately the Zekes I wasted were overtaken by half a dozen of their cohorts, stepping over them with not even a passing glance to affirm their status.

"Ammo!" Aimo, breaking open the feed tray of his IM stubber, cast about desperately for a new belt, knocking over empty ammunition boxes that were piled beside him, hastily receiving one of the two remaining 250-round belts from Colvin.

Nursing a dry throat from the smoke I hauled Arrigo away and indicated a box of grenades. "Arrigo, start passing 'em out."

Once the Zekes reached the cover of the wall they would be in a defilade, and unable to be targeted by our weapons which could not depress low enough. The only worry they had was if we began pitching grenades from the firing ports.

"Give it to 'em, lads," Aimo, eschewing his IM for a moment, pulled the pin on a frag grenade and rolled it out of the opening.

"Present for you, bastards." Kat did the same, only with bombs in both hands.

"Ladders. They've got ladders." Somebody screamed.

 _Not just ladders_ , I noted, pointing my Castra out of the opening and firing blind downwards as a grapple claw shot past. Expecting to hear an explosion amongst tightly-packed bodies, I cursed when it became clear that Zeke was too close now for my grenade launcher to be effective; it being thirty metres minimum distance for the warhead to arm.

"Any more grenades?" Colvin, holding the .338 ammunition belt that was streaming through his hands into Aimo's gun, cried.

"Nah, mate, keep that belt straight!" Spittle flew from Aimo's mouth, coating the side of his weapon. His .30 Cal was firing at maximum depression, spitting rounds downwards at the Zekes that had not yet reached the cover at the base of the wall. Further down the Rekyls and numerous rifles were beginning to slow to single shots or falling silent altogether with either burnt-out barrels or spent magazines.

"Where's our fucking ammo at?" a grunt shouted as he worked the pin from an incendiary grenade and leant up to deposit the bomb outside. Wising up to our tactics, Zeke replied with a burst of automatic fire, scything through the open port and hitting the grunt, still bearing the live grenade. Everyone ducked as the rounds pinged loudly around. Squinting through the haze I saw the cylindrical object fall to the floor and roll, its timer fuse smoking.

"OUT! OUT!" I cried as the grenade burst, filling the corridor with smoke and a bright, crackling flame that spat and hissed. Unable to do anything for Woulter, the Highlanders, and the others, I ordered a hasty exit, confident they would carry on resisting whilst we found new positions.

Running into the CP I found Corta working a drum-fed Granin KP-70 Stubber, with Wharton assisting.

"Bit lively out there, sir," I wheezed, my skin smarting from the heat. "Most of us were thrown out the east sector. The Highlanders and some others are still hanging on there."

"Any casualties?" Corta asked without looking. "Can't do much more here, bloody Zeke's out of my line of sight."

"One dead, sir." I counted off the grunt killed through the firing port. It just occurred to me that I did not know if anyone else was dead or wounded. I had not been paying attention I realised with a pang of guilt. "Zeke's brought up ladders and grapple guns, sir. He's trying for the wall."

"Well get up to the parapet and stop them. Why are you still here?"

Even before Corta had finished his sentence I was out of the CP and organising a makeshift fire-brigade. "Okay, Aimo, Kat, Cyrano, Arrigo, Colvin, we're going up to the roof. The rest of you, get outside and get up onto the wall. Be ready to meet Zeke for a bit of hand-to-hand."

Charging up the stairs with my fireteam in tow I careered out onto the roof, coming upon Izuru who, with neither autocannon nor lasgun in hand, came close to receiving a blow-out from me for neglecting to assist in the defence of the bastion. "Why are you—?" I raged, quickly coming to my senses when I saw what she was doing. Leaning over a container of 2-inch mortar shells Izuru picked one of the bombs up, pulled the safety pin, shook a second pin from inside the shell, banged the base on the small section of the wall that was still standing then hurled it overarm. Gently turning in the air, the shell came down in the middle of the Zekes hugging the base of the east wall and went off. In such tight confines the explosion was muffled by the many bodies. That was not to say the results weren't subtle. Blowing arms, legs, and even bodies into the air, the 2-inch High Explosive caused devastation, splattering blood and gore across the wall in bright, shining canvasses; morbid pieces of human art.

"Take it!" Izuru thrust a second shell at me as she prepared a third.

"Aw bloody good, Izuru," Aimo crowed in delight. "C'mon, lads, our stickie's got the right side. Let's take the left."

"Arrigo, here." Taking charge of the grunt I showed him how to arm the shell. "Pull the safety out. Shake the pin inside out. Bonk it on the base then throw."

Under normal circumstances I had a woeful arm for throwing and an even worse eye with which to place shots. Too high on the exhilaration though I made bold throws, each one landing within the Zekes at the base of the wall or scaling ladders and ropes. How could I miss such a large body of men? And with Izuru's and Arrigo's pitching, we thinned out the Zekes in a startlingly short time, leaving heaps of bodies, intact and in pieces, littering the base of the bastion wall. There had been no need to send men up onto the wall. Not a single Zeke had reached it.

Covering the west wall, Aimo, Kat, Cyrano, and Colvin made easy work of the Zekes jostling for the ladders and ropes they had managed to set up. A few even made it over the parapet but were wasted without trouble by the Voynuk Siphanis who simply waited, in a body of three ranks, and – on Lieutenant D'ambrosia's order – cut the enemy down with repeated volley-fire.

"Cease firing." The call came, repeating when parting shots were traded.

The survivors had had enough and fled pell-mell across the bodies of their friends, some slipping in the pools of blood that leaked out from underneath piled Zekes.

"Alright, let 'em go. They've had enough." Coming down with exhaustion I slumped, resting my hands on my knees, taking in gulps of air. "Good job, lads."

Dragging the Rekyl he had acquired – one of the few section automatics still with ammunition – back from the edge of the gap blasted in the wall Aimo stared at me then Izuru. "Ain't you forgetting 'bout someone?"

Clapping my hands I said, "you lot, down off the roof, iggery. Corporal, find out where Rhidian and Leurbach 'ave got to with our ammo."

Stares were exchanged between Aimo and the others, some of curiosity, others of suspicion.

"Alright, we'll leave you two alone then." Aimo shrugged, picking up his Rekyl and following the others through the hatch.

Waiting a few seconds until I was sure we were alone I leant over to Izuru, who had folded her arms and was staring off to one side, and said, "Izuru, you're in danger."

Blinking, Izuru's eyes widened in mock-surprise. She had chosen at the worst possible moment to not take me seriously. "Are you certain? I was convinced those men down there were after you, not I."

"I'm not talking about the bloody Zekes," I snapped, scooping up a handful of stones and hurling them over the wall in a rage.

" _Stop!_ " From underneath the grime coating her face Izuru's gold eyes blazed brightly. "Find yourself. I will not have dealings with a petulant child."

Shoulders sinking I let my head droop. "It's hard, Izuru…"

"Tell me of these new developments. Why am I in danger?"

"Corta's getting suspicious. D'ambrosia is too. I had to lie to my OC for you, Izuru."

"What lies did you speak?"

"I gave Corta a false name and unit. You're Captain Eliza James, Second Cyrric—"

"—Cyrric Ranger Battalion, I am familiar with the unit. I fought with them at Rakka. Why – why Eliza James?"

"Corta had me on the spot, I couldn't think of anything better. Eliza's my cousin's name, and James, well, you know why."

Glancing down, almost contemplative, Izuru replied, "inconsequential. The name means nothing."

"Izuru, I want you gone from 'ere. There's nothing to gain by kicking 'round 'ere waiting to be burnt. You have absolutely got to get lost before 2200 tonight 'cause that's when we're s'posed to be pulling out. Keladi can't wait."

Shutting the lid of the empty shell container, Izuru carefully pressed the clasps down then looked up at me. "I cannot leave," she said quietly.

"You care about me. Don't you, Izuru?" I said flatly. With no reply or change in expression made by her, I continued. "I'm not a clever bloke. But I'm not that dense either. This ain't a professional reason. It's personal, innit?"

"Were I absent, your precious bastion would be overrun," Izuru grunted, nodded down at the container before her. "Had I not discovered these, Zeke would be running amok along these walls."

"You left your position? You left your position when I told you to stay up on the roof where you wouldn't attract attention?"

"You are _not_ my commander. I do not answer to you or your lieutenant." Izuru glared. "Obstruct my mission and I will—"

"What, hurt me?" I sneered. "You've bent over backwards trying to keep me alive! Nah, you wouldn't dare."

"How little you know," Izuru's nose wrinkled. "The stench of you. The stench of all living humans. It is a pestilence."

"I don't believe you. You stickies are all liars and selfish manipulators."

Flinging herself at me, Izuru clapped her hands upon the shoulders of my flak jacket and fixed me with a murderously intense stare. Meeting it, I refused to blink or be intimidated as I had before. "I don't believe you," I muttered after a tense staredown.

What began as a muscle twitching in Izuru's cheek sprouted into her whole face contorting, before cracking up. Sitting back on her knees Izuru rested her forehead in her hand, shutting her eyes. Getting up I slung my rifle and turned away. "If you're taken under arms, I won't speak for you, I won't help you."

Never saying a word Izuru looked up at me blankly.

"I don't need you anymore," I said frankly.

Retaining her coolness for all she was worth, I registered the tiniest tremble in her jawline and a slight tightening of her gripped hands. I felt a strange pity for the xenos then, kneeling there with her hands in her lap. It was something of a pathetic sight the veteran on her knees, unarmed, alone, and within a nest of enemies. The whole spectacle invoked an almost sorry feeling inside me.

 _Sorry, Stickie, it's my lads or you. You had your chance to achieve your mission. But you're still here wasting away. Keladi's dead._

* * *

 **Kasr Kraf**

Keladi Lethidia awoke to distant shrieking. Unknowing of the place or the time and unable to achieve mental command over her senses she opened her mouth to cry out. Without moisture in her throat, and a ticklish sensation rising she managed not a sound, only a deep, choking cough that she believed was turning her insides out.

When the bout of coughing subsided Keladi raised her hands to paw at the air above her which seemed unusually close. Panic came readily when her hands found a hard surface not four inches from her face. Through bleary eyes Keladi scrabbled at the pod she was lying in, her breath fogging the glass. As if sensing its occupant awakening, the pod that was keeping Keladi captive gave a hum, replacing the idle purr from before. Pushing upwards plaintively, desperate to be free, Keladi heard a loud _whoosh_ of escaping air and a hiss of hydraulics. Rising upwards on its hinges, the lid unsealed, exhuming clouds of chilly air that invoked a sudden shiver in Keladi.

Pressing upon the soft surface of the pod with a numb hand, Keladi pressed downwards, praying her muscles would still respond to her commands after Jain Zar knew how long she had lain dormant. Finding some strength within her arm, Keladi increased the pressure on it, rolling onto her side and leaning on her elbow.

 _Jain Zar, what has befallen me?_ Keladi thought groggily, touching her eyelids with her thumb and forefinger. _Why do you deprive me of my sight? Or have I sinned so greatly that I must remain blind forever more?_

Whether Jain Zar herself was responsible for Keladi's near-total lack of sight the young banshee did not know. After a fraught period of partial blindness Keladi's eyesight began to clear, revealing what lay around the pod she had lain within.

 _I can see?_ Keladi flung her hands up to her eyes when – blessed Jain Zar and Asuryan – she realised that both of her eyes were capable of clear sight. Freezing in place, unable to come to terms with her newfound depth perception, Keladi waved her hands around, bursting with joy that she could see with clarity again.

 _I am not alone!_ Keladi, stunned, saw she was but a single occupant in a row of hundreds of others that stretched as far as the eye could see in both directions, ending in a strange mist that Keladi's gaze could not penetrate. Each cryogenic pod was stuffed with wires and tubes, running down from the ceiling and out of the wall behind it; everything bathed in a green glow that rose eerily from the grills covering the floor.

Giving a sharp intake of breath, Keladi subconsciously began to sink back into the confines of her pod, uneasy of her new surroundings. A large sigil, up in the shadows on the ceiling caught Keladi's eye. It was a great human skull with sharpened teeth, but only on one side. The other had a deeper, metallic hue and was adorned with hideous augments, tubes running up its nose and a frightening grill that was grafted over the eye socket. As disturbing as it was seeing the skull looming over her like some daemonic sentinel, Keladi's mind sparked.

 _I am in the house of the Adeptus Mechanicus! Those machine-fetishists that revere the Omnissiah as their god._ Withering under the thought of the machine-men keeping her as their captive, Keladi dug her fingers into the side of the pod and raised her leg to dismount. _Please, Jain Zar, lend me strength,_ Keladi pleaded, gasping at the cool air tickling her bare foot. Perhaps it was benevolence on the AdMech's behalf for they had clothed her in a light grey, two-piece medical robe that smelt of faint chemicals. Slightly more disturbing however was the fact that Keladi's hair was clean and had been brushed.

 _Jain Zar_. Keladi felt her mane, proud as she was of it, flow cleanly down her back; soft and wavy. _But who?_

Resting the flat of her foot on the cold floor Keladi followed with the other, pressing down slowly. It would not do to leap upright and jump around in elation. As heartened as she was that her eyesight had been fully restored, Keladi preferred to not have to pick herself up from the floor when she inevitably slipped and hurt herself.

 _Slowly, with care, take your first steps along the path,_ Keladi's master had instructed not so long ago. _T'will be many cycles before the galaxy hears your shriek._

Gathering herself Keladi let go of her clenched fists, and stood up, feeling dizziness overtake her, threatening to dump her back into the pod unless she found her balance. Thrusting her arms outwards, Keladi shuffled forwards, finding an opponent in a small set of steps that led up onto a wide walkway that overlooked the rows of pods from a three-foot-vantage. Taking a moment to gather herself Keladi scaled the steps, one foot at a time, wary of losing her balance for the Admech did not believe in a guardrail. But for that matter, neither did her people. So why was she expecting some form of handhold to assist her escape?

Cursing inwardly, using terms that would have made the hardiest veteran of Ulthwé's warrior caste clam up in shock, Keladi made the walkway, clutching a stabbing pain in the side of her ribs. The shrieking she had heard upon awakening was coming from above her. Now though it was nearer to a low moan, punctuated by sporadic thuds and rumbles, like something akin to an earthquake.

 _Or human artillery._ Keladi shuddered, recalling the ear-rending roar of the descent through Cadia's atmosphere. _Am I on Cadia still?_

A clatter of something metallic, sounding from some way behind interrupted Keladi's ponderings, striking a chord of fear in her trembling heart which leapt inside her mouth. Casting a frightened glance over her shoulder Keladi immediately shuffled in the opposite direction from where the noise had come from, trying for speed despite her lax muscles' protests. Quite soon struggling for breath Keladi staggered onwards past identical pods, nursing a mounting anxiety over the unseen fear in the shadows behind her. Every single pod she passed bore a patient, or was it a captive? She had simply awoken and left the pod of her own accord with no alarm being tripped or any other security means descending upon her. Was this complex a healing house? A containment facility? Something else? Desiring a weapon, something to defend herself with, Keladi swallowed nervously. Her mental barriers were in pieces, in an even sorrier state than her body was. Left with only the shift-thin garments covering her, Keladi felt near-naked without armour, and helpless.

A change in tone of the falling artillery brought Keladi to a halt. Breathing heavily, her hair falling over her face, Keladi listened to the _eeeeeeee_ the shells made, increasing in pitch at the last second before impact. _Am I drawing closer to it, or is it drawing closer to me?_ Keladi rested a hand upon her heart, feeling the tremble that occurred with each explosion. _Do they burrow beneath the earth?_

The reply to her question came in a seemingly coincidental fashion. With no prior warning given a crack appeared in the ceiling above Keladi, widening and showering her with bits of dirt and insulation. The cause of the split came in the form of a smoking shell, having torn through the ground above, and the ceiling. All that arrested its fall were the mess of bent steel supports the shell had ripped away from their bolts. They now extended like twisted, jagged fingers down to where Keladi sprawled on the floor, bearing the shell in a bracket-like hold.

Silence followed the arrival of the dud shell. Rooted in fear, Keladi gaped at the smooth, round nose of the shell hanging above her, too petrified to move. Where she had balked at retreating to a safe distance, the grate of steel slowly giving way galvanised her.

Weak-kneed Keladi ignored her body's damning insistence to remain still, and made the effort to regain her feet, performing the awkward shuffle; all she could manage. Louder and louder the tearing of the steel beams grew, dogging at Keladi's ears, turning her heavy gasps to whimpers of terror. Unable to flee faster, Keladi heard the final few inches of steel giving way and dove down behind the cover offered by a cryogenic pod, unknowing if it would stave off the blast.

Billowing forth, an invisible wave of heat washed over Keladi. Expecting a loud bang, Keladi was surprised when she heard nothing at all outside her covered ears. What came next was unexpected, and that was glass, torn from the lids of the pods, flying overhead in a storm, coating everything in shards, many large and jagged, others tiny crumbs. Not escaping harm Keladi reared up in the immediate aftermath of the shell's delayed detonation, shaking glass and dirt free from her torso, arms, and hair. Where she had exposed her hands to cover her ears, little traces of crystalline blood leaked from where the minute shards had pierced her skin. Keladi's shoulder and her back too were strangely warm.

 _Khaela Mensha Khaine._ Astonished by the destruction caused by the one shell, Keladi turned a slow circle and saw the pods. Each one had had its lid destroyed by the shockwave, exposing the beings inside before their thaw-out process had commenced. Broken wires and cables drooped from the ceiling, some of them dripping with sparks. Above each pod red lights flashed; not positive signs.

 _Light!_ Keladi's eyes widened. The shell had collapsed part of the complex' ceiling, revealingshafts of light that poured down from above ground. In her eagerness Keladi forgot the glass covering the floor, realising whereupon her foot gained several slices from sharp bits which remained lodged inside her skin. Dropping more expletives a maiden like her should not have known, Keladi braced herself against the pod she had taken shelter behind and lifted up her right foot, prying out the glass piece by piece. There now posed a dilemma: should she use her hands to sweep the glass out of her path, risking injuries to her hands that prevented her from climbing to freedom, or keep her hands unmarked, thereby ensuring her bare feet would suffer the effects of walking across glass.

 _Jain Zar, is this the right way?_ Keladi stepped forwards, moaning as the first few nicks drew blood from her toes and heel. As undignified as it was, the tears were falling freely when Keladi made the distance through the sea of glass, two smears of crystalline blood trailing behind her. Sobbing as a young child would when it had taken its first ever tumble, Keladi carried herself up and out of the treacherous ground, collapsing once she felt smooth stone underneath her.

 _Why have you forsaken me, Jain Zar?_ She asked, craning her neck to see the light shining down, inviting her, beckoning to her. _Where are you, Izuru? Avele? Why did you abandon me to such an ignoble fate?_

Light-headed Keladi picked up her right foot and looked at the heel, gagging when she saw all the little bits of glass poking out from the skin. They would need to be removed immediately, lest they be driven deeper into her foot. Tearfully, Keladi got the first shard between her thumb and forefinger and, shutting her eyes, began to twist.


	36. Chapter 35

**Valkyrie 229, Callsign 'Crow 5-7', Cadia Secundus, 14:39**

Patiently listening to his fellow pilot's calm voice relaying the exact grid reference of his landing zone, Warrant Officer Hugh Waldo recorded the position of Crow 5-4 and transmitted the coordinates, copying the actions of his lift commander, Captain Karl Imress.

"Five-Four losing altitude," Warrant Officer Hector Hodiss' voice came on over troop comms. "VTOL shot up. Will try and glide her in."

Hodiss's Slick had taken fire from a hidden 20-millimetre VAK anti-aircraft gun and was on the way down. Peeling off from the vic of three ships after soaking up the well-aimed tracer burst, the Slick began banking lazily, grey smoke trailing from its port engine.

"You got your survival kit, Five-Four?" Captain Imress asked, keeping his tone light.

"Affirm, Crow Leader. Packed and ready," Hodiss replied smoothly. "Might have to reschedule the date. It'll get me out of dinner with the missus for a while at least."

Chuckling, Imress said, "best of luck, Five-Four. We'll see you at home."

Dipping his wing to get a better view of the crash-landing, Waldo saw the Slick's nose plough into the grassy plain, the angle shallow enough to allow the ship to coast along on its skids before the downward force dropped the nose into the earth, tearing the skids and chin guns from their mounts. Dug up clumps of mud and grass were flung over the Slick's canopy, half-burying it as the ship rolled over on its side, the force of the impact weakening the port wing enough for it to shear off, coming to rest against a rocky outcrop the Slick slid past with scant feet to spare. Losing the last of its momentum, Hodiss's Slick lay on one side with the starboard wing jutting up into the sky.

"Five-Four? Five-Four, do you read?"

On Waldo's port, Imress took up a high orbit around Hodiss' crash-site, continually clicking his on his comm, awaiting Hodiss' answering click.

"Crow Leader, request permission to land at crash-site and confirm Crow Five-Four's status." Waldo glanced hopefully at his flight commander's tinted cockpit. "Their comms might be down."

"Negative, Five-Seven. I have multiple personnel appearing on my scanners. They're making their way over to the crash-site," Imress replied coolly. "We have full compliments. Anything extra will exceed our respective weight limits."

Frowning behind his oxygen mask Waldo swept his scope outwards, loosening the scanned area around his ship. Damned Zekes had manoeuvred south of Kasr Jark with alarming speed, cutting the supply lines between Jark and Kraf, forcing all relief to be brought in by air. Now it looked like a Zeke platoon was making a move in Hodiss's direction. Streaming in from the north and the east tiny, man-shaped specks advanced upon the crash-site, blithely passing off the orbiting Valkyries as no threat to their integrity. That was where Waldo would prove them wrong. Flicking channels to the crew intercom Waldo spoke with Arun Ovile, strapped in the co-pilot's seat behind him. "Our rotaries ready to feed, Arun?"

"Twelve-hundred rounds loaded and keen to devastate some Zekes," Ovile said.

"Okay, I'm going to request a single strafe. Send Zeke scarpering." Waldo eyed the Zekes converging upon the downed bird.

Ovile agreed readily with his pilot's plan. Imress now needed convincing.

"I'd advocate a more cautious approach, Five-Seven. We are strafing friendlies," Imress replied.

"Understood, Crow Leader, I propose we scratch Five-Four's back widthways; shake the bugs off." _Come on, Captain_ , _the longer we wait, the longer Hodiss is down there,_ Waldo thought to himself. Disconcertingly he could see no activity aside the Zekes closing in like flies to the corpse of a Grox.

A pause from Imress: too long. No spoken reply was given, just two clicks on the comm, signalling that Imress approved of the action.

 _About damn time_. Waldo sighed, making sure to he was back on intercom first so that Imress did not hear. "Hold everything down back there, Russ. We're having a short scrap."

"What are we engaging?" Russ Reath, forced to stand as the litter cases were taking up the entire floorspace, asked.

"Hodiss is in a spot of bother. We're scratching his back."

"Any further time put on the clock? We've got a fair few VSIs back here. Headwounds."

"Negligible. We're helping a brother flyer here, Russ. You'd do the same if you were flying."

Banking in unison with Imress, Waldo lined up wing-abreast and flicked his shutters down. The ocular sight granted superior magnification, allowing Waldo to lay his ordnance within half a metre of the target though carried no Hellstrike missiles or rocketpods, only his chin-mounted rotary cannon that sat in place of the multi-laser.

A bubble of anger arose when Waldo saw the Zekes dancing around Hodiss' cockpit and clambering up onto the Slick's body, shooting their weapons off into the air with such carefree abandon that it gave Waldo pause for thought. _Are they oblivious to us? Their demise is imminent yet they still frolic about in the open._

Waldo knew of the detrimental effect the taint of Chaos could have on a person's mind. It was a sickness to which there was no cure. That though was not strictly true, Waldo bearing the remedy underneath his thumb: the button linking with the rotary cannon's firing mechanism. At nineteen rounds fired per second, the cannon would eradicate the soft, fleshy Zekes in faint puffs of pink mist, something Waldo looked forward to seeing in short stead. Grimly removing the cannon's safety, Waldo uttered the declaration that he was about to engage ground targets, and touched the trigger.

* * *

"Is anyone alive?" A voice stifled by bandages stirred Ral Bleak from his daze. "Hello?"

Forehead aching from the blood that had rushed there, Ral lifted his head up, feeling a sharp tug downwards and a crick in his neck where the jostling of the crash-landing had jarred it. The starboard side of the Slick was tilted up into the air, and as such the litter cases had all fallen against the passengers on the portside, forming a haphazard crush.

"Ho," Ral called softly, his clumsy fingers working at his stretched harness. "Call to me and I'll make my way down to you."

"I can't see."

"Neither can I. Too dark in here," Ral twisted to look at the man beside him. "Can't get my harness free, can you help me out?"

Still out from the crash, the man next along from Ral remained still, his chin resting upon his breast.

"Tom, say if you're alive, huh?" Keeping up the unconcerned façade Ral hung onto the loose straps as they came away from his chest and let himself down the steep slope, using the thin grill on the deck for handholds.

"Colonel? Ma-am?" Ral paid the intelligence officer a cursory glance, uncertain if she was conscious or otherwise then turned to the pile of wounded. "I'm here. Talk to me."

"You're behind me." Something stirred beneath the bodies. A hand was pushed through the gap between a person's legs, the fingers of which widened, feeling around for Ral.

"Alright, my lad, I gotcha." Ral took the man's hand and held on tightly. "I'm Ral. Where you hit?"

"Face."

"Just your face?"

"Yeah, just my face."

"Can you walk then?"

"Can't move."

"Not to worry." Ral eased the body of a Cadian with a bandaged headwound off the man, setting him down as gently as possible at the colonel's feet. "There. Can you move now?"

"…Little bit," the bandaged man, another Cadian, groaned, stretching out his weak arms, pressing against the bodies of the litter cases in a fruitless attempt to make himself some room.

"Be right as rain in no time." Ral picked the man up in his arms and carried him over to the rear hatch. "Change them bandages sometime too."

"No, don't take them off!" The bandaged man shuddered. "I'm deformed."

"You're not deformed. They'll treat you well down in Kraf." Ral rubbed the man's shoulder consolingly. "Medicae nurses; plenty o' them down there. Proper stunners they are. You'll pull one of them, no sweat."

"I couldn't talk to women. Ever. No-one is going to want to look at me now."

"It's amazing what sort of stuff they can get done now with wounds," Ral said, examining the Cadian's blood-stained bandages. "Get you a whole proper new face. It'll be better than the old one too. The girls'll like that."

"We're assigned a bed partner at barracks, part of the Sleeping Roster."

"Well that don't sound so bad. Free sack time." Ral grinned. "You Cadians have it better than us Nerians."

"They're watching us. All of us. Always," the Cadian mumbled. "If we don't get our partner pregnant by the end of the week, we get a punishment detail from the battalion commissar."

"What?" Ral, curious, uneasy too, leant in to listen.

"Cadia needs soldiers," the Cadian said flatly. "We do our duty for the Emperor on and off the battlefield."

Patting the man's arm, Ral said, "take it easy, pal."

"I'll take it any way I can," he replied, sounding a little tearful.

More of the Slick's passengers were slowly awakening, rousing groggy from the short period of unconsciousness. Those seated against the starboard bulkhead were scrambling to undo harnesses, those on the opposite side gingerly manoeuvring the human pile that were the litter cases into more comfortable positions.

"Soldier, drop the ramp," ordered the colonel. She had come round with nary a murmur of discontent, assuming her pre-crash coolness immediately despite her feet and legs being hemmed in by bodies.

"Yes, ma-am." Closest to the hatch, Ral clambered onto the portside bulkhead and worked his way up to the round, palm-sized button that would normally require reaching up towards the ceiling to hit. Pressing firmly several times, Ral heard nothing in any way mechanical, no answering whir from the hatch's motor, not even a whisper. The ship's systems were quite dead.

"No go, ma-am." Ral slid back down to the sharp incline that was the deck. "Try the side door," he said, forgetting he was addressing a colonel.

"Try the side door," the colonel repeated, carefully concealing her irritation at Ral's upstaging her.

"At once, ma-am." A Cadian medic, seeing to his charges, scaled the gradient and got a grip on the inside of the sliding door.

"What do you see?"

The colonel, Ral, and the others waited in anticipation as the Cadian pushed the shutter to one side, letting a shaft of white light across his face. "There's—"

A sharp _ping_ above the medic's head brought him to his knees, still clinging to the door handles. Scarcely a hair's breadth above his crown was a little round hole the size of a fingertip. Shooting a nervous glance down at the sea of faces, the medic slowly rose, his eyes drawing level with the slit.

"They're coming—"

Unprepared for the ensuing cacophony, Ral clapped his hands over his ears when a piercing clatter of gunfire, coming from outside, punched through the door, catching the medic in the chest. With blood pouring from exit wounds on his back, the medic collapsed against the door, his legs sliding out from under him.

Realising the blood from the Cadian was on his face, Ral wiped it on his sleeve, keeping himself low and still. Confused, frightened faces cast about. Those without their sight grasped at others, petrified at the ear-splitting, rapid-fire sound of hammers upon metal.

"Stay down!" someone gasped.

 _No shit, what else are we going to do?_ Ral clutched at his head when a second rifle shot came through the door, giving a loud clap then ricocheting.

"How thick is this ship's armour?" the colonel hissed. "Anyone?"

No-one could give an answer. Ral's – as well as everyone else's – ears were stretched taught, listening to the clamour of the Zekes outside as they surrounded the Slick, firing weapons in all directions; stirring up one hell of a racket.

 _Like an angry mob descending upon the beast's lair._ Ral swallowed, eying the ramp behind him, wondering just how much metal there was between him and Zeke's probing bullets. Cries went up when a second burst peppered the door, filling the compartment with noise.

"Oh, oh," a wounded Cadian groaned over and over again.

"Ssh!" another hissed.

"Quiet!"

Keeping his silence, Ral noticed Carillo, unconscious, was still fastened in his seat. _Come on, pal, need you awake._

"What is his status?" the colonel, brandishing a laspistol, apparently their sole means of defence, whispered.

"He's still out, ma-am." Ral winced, shielding Carillo when scattered rifle shots pummelled the hull, sounding like giant gongs were banging against it. "Don't shoot. They'll kill us all in here."

"Would you all rather lie down and die? Cadians do not capitulate without a fight."

This non-combatant was just as dangerous as the Zekes outside, Ral realised in growing fear. "If you shoot, ma-am, they'll start wasting the wounded. It's our job to protect them!"

"Shut up, Private. You will be first out of that door." Setting her jaw firmly, the colonel reflexively aimed her laspistol at the door when a crash of rifle butts on the holed steel reverberated through the compartment.

"God-Emperor protect us," a wounded Cadian whimpered, clasping his trembling hands together in desperate prayer. Following his example, other hands joined his.

"Come on, mate, wake up." Ral shook Carillo's shoulder, his eyes flitting between the starboard door and the colonel's laspistol. Ral would make a grab for the sidearm if the colonel looked like she was about to use it. He would not let her be the cause of their deaths.

The clanging on the door subsiding – the Zekes working out that blunt force would not gain them entry – it was replaced with a grating, grinding noise as hands pulled the door sideways on its rails.

"Please don't," Ral pleaded when the colonel leant forwards to cover the widening gap with her weapon. Wearing a mask of grim determination, the colonel shook her head. She was determined to die in an honourable manner, Ral realised. Never mind the score of helpless wounded with her, unable to defend themselves. Such foolishness and selfishness burned a bitter brand of resent inside him.

Opening to its fullest, the door came to a halt, the unseen hands letting go and retreating. Silhouetted by the cloudy sky, a blurry head appeared. Catching the colonel's trigger finger twitching, Ral lashed out against the laspistol's barrel, batting it away from where it was aimed squarely at the head, the shot sparking brightly against the bulkhead beside the door. Given cause to flee, the head dropped out of sight. A strong, burning stench of melted steel now filled the troop bay. Where the las shot had hit there was a shiny, dripping wound that gave off smoke.

Outraged at Ral's interference, the colonel's expression turned livid, very nearly turning her weapon upon him then. Without a word spoken, the colonel nonetheless made her intentions clear: _you will pay for that._

 _We'll all pay for that, ma-am,_ Ral returned, also wordlessly.

In the wake of the colonel's token of resistance, the Zekes outside had fallen quiet. No other faces appeared in the open doorway. His heart fluttering, Ral imagined the Zekes convening with each other in whispers, debating what to do with the Slick's occupants, who had now made it quite clear that they would not give in so easily.

"Ral, what are—?" Carillo had awoken.

"Shush." Ral placed a hand over Carillo's mouth, silencing the confused grunt. Raising a finger to his lips, Ral motioned for quiet. Still Zeke had not made a sound, his lack of activity equally perplexing and putting the wind up Ral who could only remain as still as possible and await the enemy's next move.

With all eyes fixed on the open door, the unexpected fusillade bursting through the raised ramp behind brought on screams and yelps as bullets met flesh and glanced off the bulkheads. Tiny shafts of light appearing behind him, Ral flung himself flat on the deck, pulling the groggy Carillo down next to him, eardrums protesting, nearly out of his mind with fear. Then, as if provoked by the spiteful shot the colonel had taken, a small, round object came sailing in through the door, sparking off shouts of warning when it was discovered to be a grenade. Seeing the smoking fuse rising from where the bomb had rolled, Ral gave a stifled whimper and clamped his hands over his ears, the bleats of those unfortunate enough to be close to the grenade driving nails into his heart.

Tiny moans of pain were all that came from the corner in aftermath of the horrific explosion, dampened as it was by the bodies closeby. The sound of grown men crying was perhaps an even worse thing to hear than seeing the blood spattered up the bulkhead.

"Oh please, no more," a frightened voice cried.

"We surrender," another gasped.

"Shoot me. Shoot me."

Even the colonel appeared shaken by the casual brutality displayed by the unseen Zekes, Ral noted, for she was now lying prone at Carillo's shoulder; having dispensed all ideas about using her sidearm, only desiring to live. Within the belly of the Slick, it was every man and woman for his and herself.

Of the same mind as the colonel, Ral nevertheless clung to Carillo, keeping him as low as possible when a second grenade – this one a stick type – was tossed in, drawing howls of frenzied terror. With less obstruction than before, the charge went off producing the same magnified _boom_ , muting the collective screams. Deafened, Ral felt a wetness covering his face, and realised it was blood. Flecks of it were everywhere now, staining clothing, bandages, and skin. It was in his hair and on his lips too; the taste of copper.

 _And I hit?_ Ral groped for Carillo, shaking him when he would not move. _Is Tom hit?_

In as bedraggled a state as Ral and Carillo were, the colonel removed her shaking hands from where they were covering her ears, unsure if Zeke had had enough or not.

Then a muzzle of an automatic was jabbed in through the doorway, with only the hands of its user seen. Sweeping the interior, the Zeke fired blind, the rapid clatter of his weapon a thunderstorm in his hands, dealing out indiscriminate death to the vainly protesting wounded. When the silence came after the first burst, there were even fewer voices that remained to cry softly in the dark.

 _Here we go. This is it._ Ral found Carillo's wrist and held it. Carillo in return took Ral's wrist in his own hand. _I've got you, pal_.

Eclipsing the snarl of the automatic, brutal staccato bursts of a heavier-calibre weapon churned up the ground outside, stitching a straight line of lead up across the Slick's hull, sounding akin to an avalanche of boulders on the steel plating. Twin roars of turbofan engines bellowed overhead, swiftly followed by another pair. Both ships' strafing left a wake of silence. The Zeke that had been shooting up the interior had disappeared.

Dust intermingled with blood tickled Ral's nostrils, bringing on a sneeze. "Anyone...?"

A hand was raised from the bloody pile of bodies, its owner muttering, "the Emperor protects."

"The Emperor protects," the colonel replied, getting to her feet and clambering slowly past Ral and Carillo, grasping the hand before it dropped. "You have done your duty to the God-Emperor. Now rest."

"Mother." Another man stirred but was too weak to move.

"Take heart, Guardsman. The Emperor is your mother, your father, your sibling, resting within you always."

Did she mean it? Ral wondered. After all they were just words, and it was not like the colonel was actually stopping to see if she could provide for those grievously wounded either in the crash or the shooting. Perhaps they were solely for her benefit so she did not feel ill at ease for abandoning the men.

Reaching the open door, the colonel turned back and gestured down at Ral and Carillo. "You men there. Any of you that can walk, come with me."

"Tom, can you move?"

"Ooh, I've got something – something hit me in my arse, Ral," Carillo said in a pained voice. "Can't walk."

"Anywhere else?"

"Nah, just my arse. Felt like someone poked it with their finger."

"Come on, I'll help you. You can use your hands, can't you?"

"Yeah – oh my god." Carillo gaped in horror at the extent of the injuries the grenades had dealt. The deep red coating the bulkheads too was bright and shining in the light.

"Careful now. Out you go, mate," Ral grunted as Carillo squeezed past him, falling face-first down to the muddy ground ten feet below. "You alright?"

Slumped and looking lifeless, Carillo replied, "I need help."

"Colonel? Colonel, we need a hand here," Ral called to the officer who had moved around to the other side of the Slick where the cockpit was.

"Pilots are dead," came her reply.

"What's she…?" Carillo propped himself up on his elbows when the colonel reappeared, wandering over to the bodies of the Zekes. "Ral?

Ral, hanging half-in, half-out of the door grimaced in disgust when the colonel removed her laspistol from her holster and shot a wounded Zeke. The hand he raised to protect his face, or simply a plea for aid was coldly ignored.

"Colonel, I need to get these men out the ship. They're gonna die in there," Ral called trying to keep the bite in his tone to a minimum, so taken aback he was by the colonel's spiteful killing.

"They will die out here too, Private." The colonel raised both her arms in a shrug. "Look where we are."

"Well them Slicks are gonna come back, aren't they?" Craning his neck, Carillo searched the skies for the departed Valkyries. "They zipped those Zekes, so why aren't they landing? Why aren't they picking us up?"

"Too overladen." Ral let his arms hand limply over the lip. "No more room."

"Better they continue to Kraf. That way I can still complete my assignment without being there in person," the colonel said. Stooping she picked up an M-35 Galaxy from a Zeke. "Come with me, or make your own way to Kraf. I suggest not to waste time here. More Chaos will be arriving."

"What 'bout the wounded?" Carillo dragged himself through the muck. "Have you any decency, Colonel?"

"Provide all the moral comfort you wish, and when the enemy finds you, be safe knowing that you did all you could for those men; nothing." The colonel waved the bayonet she had removed from the M-35 at Carillo. "I want to live. Not be an evening feast for those heathen bastards which those men shall be tonight."

For all her cold-hearted pragmatism, the colonel was offering a very valid point. There were no medical supplies with which to tend the fresh wounds. And the act of moving the men out into the open air might very well kill them. That stung Ral deeply, the feeling of helplessness and only being able to look out for oneself.

"Carillo, we're going with the colonel," Ral said despondently, "nothing else we can do here."

Raising a leg so he could drop out of the opening and land on his feet, Ral felt his other foot be grasped. Another Cadian had survived, or was well enough to walk. The cold, white fear in the young man's face was compelling enough for Ral to reach back in and offer him his hand. "C'mon, lad, we've got to leave."

"Don't leave me."

"Not a chance. Grab on and I'll help you out."

Carefully wriggling backwards out of the doorway, both his hands held by the Cadian, Ral felt his legs pedalling at thin air, there being no suitable footholds in reach. His weight though was enough to pull the man out far enough so his head could be seen. For the briefest moment Ral stared at the Cadian's close-cropped head which was shaven very close to the skin in the manner of the rawest recruit. Bloody as it was, Ral saw, or thought he saw what looked like bone sticking out just above his right ear.

"Okay, I'm gonna drop down now. You follow me."

"How far is the drop?" the Cadian asked numbly.

The blank, glazed-over eyes. The poor man had been blinded.

"Very short. I can almost touch it really," Ral said brightly. "Just a small hop."

"Just a small hop."

"Nothing to worry about." Ral let go, landing on his feet but losing his balance in the process, to Carillo's concern.

"You hit?"

"No. Might need a new set o' drawers though." Ral wiped his hands down and beckoned to the blind Cadian. "Down you come, pal, same way I did."

With painful slowness the Cadian first got one leg out of the door and then the other. "Will you catch me if I fall over?" he asked in a little voice.

"Not gonna fall over. It's only a little drop," Ral laughed, sticking out his arms all the same. "Ready?"

Dropping from the door, Ral caught the Cadian in his outstretched arms and held him upright, expecting a shout of dismay when the drop turned out to be longer than he had thought. "There you go, piece o' cake that. Now what's your name, son?"

"…Ral." Carillo was pointing at the Cadian. "Sorry."

Gently turning the curiously limp body around, Ral sighed softly when he saw the young man's flat, thoroughly vacant expression. "Alright, down you go." With as much dignity as was possible, Ral sat the Cadian against the hull of the Slick.

"How?" Carillo asked, staring at the Cadian in curiosity.

"Doesn't matter." Ral knelt and dug out the man's tags from around his neck. "This one's coming home with us."

"Cadians are home though. What they gonna do if they lose here?" Carillo gripped Ral's hand and struggled to get up, forced to hobble awkwardly due to his wound.

"Dunno. Find somewhere else I s'pose. Same what we had to do with Nereus."

"Nereus…?" Carillo began but quickly put a lid on his curiosity when Ral shook his head, evidently a subject not for discussion, being too recent and uncomfortable a memory. "We following the colonel?"

Ral grunted in acknowledgement and picked up his pace. The intelligence officer was already a good way away, heading south across the plain in the direction of Kraf. As distasteful as he found the colonel's conduct, she was their only hope if they ran into Zeke. _A necessary evil, one we can only put up with for now._

* * *

 **Bastion 33, 16:58**

Light shone in unbroken shafts through holes blasted in the walls of the company command post which smelt richly of propellant and sweat. A carpet of spent brass lay underfoot as well as two long, snaking belts that had been run through the KP-70 and tossed to one side.

Helmetless, and with sweat clinging to his brow, Simon Corta called back to Wharton. "Wharton, take over here. I'm going down to the courtyard."

"Sir." Dedicatedly manning the bastion's vox despite its continued silence – there had been nothing from 2nd Guards Brigade all afternoon – Wharton tugged off his headset and hurried to take up Corta's position.

With the increased shelling of the outer wall it was now impossible to properly man the defences, what with several large breaches collapsing parts of the interior and opening up sections for the Zeke howitzers to use as aiming points. Aside from a small handful of riflemen, the Siphanis and Cannon had withdrawn to the open courtyard below the bastion wall, it at least being protected from the howitzers which were content to chew away at the wall in the hope the debris would form mounds for the infantry to scale; granting them access to the bastion.

Having received its fair share of mortar fire, the courtyard was a mess of broken glass, dirt, and rubble. In the latter's case however, pains had been taken to shift the worst of it to one side, granting some clear space. The Cadian artillery tow, its owners neglecting to return for it, was lying on its side, now a burnt-out wreck. Both the Siphani pioneer platoon and the now platoon-sized unit that was Cannon were occupying opposite sides of the courtyard, Lieutenant D'ambrosia keeping her people away from Corta's. Those wounded were arranged in separate rows just outside the bastion's outer gate, hoping a field ambulance would show up and carry them back to the rear. After repeated requests though, none had shown.

A few faces looked Corta's way when he stepped out into the open air, as if awaiting fresh news. Sadly though Corta had nothing to give them, terribly frustrating as it was, not knowing what was going on on the company's flanks. It was the price of being a lowly subaltern, only having a full tactical grasp of the situation in the company's sector.

 _Well done, lads._ Corta surveyed his men in silent approval. Without even the fancy armour and equipment of the Cadians and they were still giving Zeke a run for his money through sheer tenacity. Some weren't even company men but hangers-on. That military journalist had been with them since Rakka, being there completely of his own accord.

"Not sure whether I've had the pleasure." Corta stuck out his hand to the man. "Simon Corta."

Quickly putting his notes to one side, the stout man sprang to his feet and returned the handshake. "Sorry, sir, there's been a lot going on recently. Haven't had a chance to speak to you."

"No problem. What's your tag?"

"These lot have been calling me scribe. I don't mind."

"Oh, very well, Scribe. Tell me you've been writing exactly what you've seen."

"Exactly, sir, blisters and all."

"Outstanding. Keep it up." Off-handedly Corta grinned. That such a low-prestige unit like Cannon was getting press coverage tickled him pink for he was secretly overjoyed that it was not the Cadians getting all the attention, as was usual.

 _Good job, men._ Corta nodded stoically at the few men who met his eye. Remaining silent in his approval was necessary. The fight was not yet over. Only when – if – they pulled through would Corta openly congratulate them.

While a few acknowledged his presence, many more were engrossed in wolfing down the remaining contents of ratpacks, reloading magazines with loose rounds, or cleaning away dirt build-up inside barrels. A few men slept, their apparent exhaustion enough to stave off the nightmares plaguing everyone.

Staff Sergeant Perandis, squatting with Corporal Garst, Corporal Katecka, and the three men in those peculiar berets, was working over a pair of Rekyls and an IM Stubber. "What's wrong with that barrel?"

"Mucky I think, Staff Sarn't." Katecka, his eye to a Rekyl barrel, handed it to Perandis to check.

Examining the barrel briefly Perandis gave his verdict. "Give it a pull-through and take a chance."

"Well, Sarn't Perandis, how are the men doing?" Corta, beckoning to Perandis, asked quietly.

As dirt-ridden as any man in Cannon, Perandis rose, stretched, and blinked. His red-rimmed eyes were sore and ticklish from the dust. "Not a murmur of discontent, sir. Zeke's coming and Zeke's dying. The lads are doing what they signed up to do with no complaint."

"Absolutely no complaints?"

"Well, there's the issue with the mains…"

"No running water?"

"Running water's available, it's just Sarn't Gale hasn't given his approval for us to drink it, not unless it's boiled first."

"So boil it. Or do we not have power for the stoves?"

"Right, sir." Perandis smiled grimly. "Our cooks have been tearing their hair out trying to keep the heat up. Gale mentioned something about a gas leak too. He might have to enforce a total shutdown of the mess."

"Very well. Start fires out here and put water on to boil immediately. However disgusting it tastes I want the men hydrated, Sarn't."

"Yes, sir."

"Ammunition. How many rounds per man?"

Perandis nodded at one of two fires that had already been set. Arranged around the heat were power packs for M-35s and M-36s. "Well, we can fire the Kantraels and Galaxies indefinitely, sir, as long as there's heat for them to recharge."

"I wouldn't put money on holding back Zeke with only blessed lasguns. What about the section automatics?"

"Those two Rekyls and that IM stubber Garst has. They're all that are serviceable. Ammunition equates to what each man has on his person; so not much. Barrel supply is zero."

"The magazine?"

"What the Cadians didn't take when they pulled out, we've fired. That includes that supply of two-inch."

"Very well, Sarn't. Any other issues?"

"Could do with some spirits."

"Ha." Corta felt for his hip flask and shook it, feeling its emptiness. "Not a chance, Sarn't. We're all running stone cold now."

Lieutenant D'ambrosia at Corta's shoulder made Perandis withhold his reply.

"A word if you will, Lieutenant Corta," D'ambrosia said.

Understanding that it meant alone, Corta dismissed Perandis and fell into step with D'ambrosia, clasping his hands behind his back as they paced the courtyard. "How does your platoon fare, Leesha?"

Removing her peaked cap, D'ambrosia scratched her closely-shaved head, saying, "we look forward to the next contact."

"Shall I take that down in writing?" Corta, surprised, gave a smile. " Our ever-dependable allies in the Voynuk Siphanis relish the thought of grappling in desperate struggle with the hated enemy."

"Well, we do appear to be doing quite well, don't you think, Simon? I am not ready to capitulate just yet."

"I'm just saying there is no commissar looking over our shoulders to check that we are displaying the correct level of enthusiasm. We can be honest with one another."

"As I said, morale is high."

"Likewise."

"You're surprised?"

"Well…" Corta stopped and glanced around, lowering his voice to a scant whisper. "I think we're in serious trouble. And we've a long way to go until twenty-two hundred."

"Do you believe that relief will get here by two-two-double-oh?"

"I like to think withdrawal is still an option. I hope the men think the same."

"Is that what you tell them?"

"I tell them the truth. I do not know when exactly we will be withdrawing. I doubt even the colonel knows. All he gets is what his divisional commander tells him. We're at the bottom of a very long ladder here, Leesha."

"I am not in the business of speculation, Simon. I am willing to let this unfold hour by hour if necessary. I do not think we are in serious trouble either. Your men have proved that Zeke can be thrown off time and time and again. The trick with the mortar shells was ingenious. I compliment them for that."

"Well that was not actually—" Corta broke off, conscious that D'ambrosia's reaction to the fact that it was the mercenary captain's doing and not his mens' would not be positive.

" _Oh_." D'ambrosia's face fell. Tugging at her tightly-buttoned collar she said, "no record of such an action will be taken in my diary. I hope yours will be the same. We cannot have this upstart mercenary showing up the Imperial Guard. We have a reputation to uphold."

"No, Leesha, we cannot." Corta did not say it but he had recorded a glowing review of the mercenary's actions in the company's war diary, even going so far as to list her name and affiliated unit; something to be kept from D'ambrosia then.

"Lieutenant Corta, sir!"

"Excuse me. What is it?" Corta strode in the direction of the voice.

"Up top, sir."

"Wharton?" Corta shouted through the doorway. "Anything?"

"They're coming, sir." Wharton's voice came from upstairs.

Backing out, Corta faced the remnants of Cannon Company, cupped his hands, and barked, "stand to!"

* * *

Waving a hand in front of my face to dispel the copious amounts of dust filling the air, I leant around the corner of section of the collapsed wall and peered out at the carnage of bodies. "Come on, Aimo, get set up," I whispered, signalling to the waiting grunts behind to assume their firing positions in the brief lull before the next attack.

"Keep that belt straight, mate," Aimo said to Arrigo when he laid his IM upon piles of sandbags that had been arranged as a temporary defence across the hole in the wall.

Laying my Castra and its corresponding bandolier within easy reach I felt for the handle of my six-inch combat knife behind my pistol holster, fingering the rough grip. No-one said anything about the upcoming melee, nobody would want to admit that it was coming but there it was, lurking just over the horizon. Aimo knew it too by the entrenching tool he propped against the hardbags. Arrigo, also under no illusions, drew a trench knife with a knuckleduster grip and checked the keenness of the blade. _Bit late for that, chum,_ I thought, sliding my knife back inside its sheathe and checking my Kazalak's chamber for brass.

"Doin' okay, mate?" I said to Aimo nonchalantly. "Anything you need?"

"Could do with a slab," Aimo replied with equal ease, laying a belt of cartridges in his IM's feed tray and pressing the cover down firmly.

"Aw dunno 'bout that. Might have to check the pantry."

"Yeah, find me a lumpy-jumper with nice tits too. Gotta be some hiding somewhere."

"You're married, mate." I feigned disapproval then added, "yeah, find me a nice redhead too."

"Red, uh? Didn't think that was your type." Setting his weapon's sights, Aimo grinned.

"Everyone likes red hair. Ain't that right, Colvin?"

"I'm Arrigo, Sarn't," Arrigo said irritably. "I'm married too. Real bitch my other half is, I can tell you. Best thing ever being out here. Means I can get away from her."

"Anyway, you haven't got to worry. Just pop upstairs." Aimo grinned slyly.

"You what?" Arrigo frowned in confusion.

"Never mind that. Just watch the line, Private." I glared daggers at Aimo, uprooting from my position next to him and hurrying down the firing line. "Everyone else have those eyes pointed north or there'll be fizzers tossed around."

"We'll be hard-pressed to hold once the Rekyls are gone." Kat looked up at me when I passed him by. "Then what?"

"We'll be down to using lasguns but it's better than nothing. Long as we've got a nice blaze going then we can use 'em over and over."

Reaching the cooks' position, I was glad to see Gale had returned after his disappearance. He and his three subordinates, without a functioning Rekyl to use, were resorting to their rifles and lasguns and had them aimed through holes in the wall. "Nice you cooks joining us. Might get a chance to see some real combat 'ere," I said jokingly, much to Azar's displeasure.

"They won't get past us, Sarn't." Gale nodded and smiled warmly, his shrewd eyes narrowing. "By the Emperor, we'll make 'em pay for the damage they did to the mess."

"Number one."

The stink of the incendiary grenade was still hanging in the air when I came to the place where it had been dropped by the dead grunt. A darkened patch of wall and floor was all that remained, the smell of it the most egregious reminder. The Tabors, the Highlanders, and a few other company men who were unable to evacuate were unharmed thankfully.

"Tabors, you ready to kill for the Emperor?" I said, not really at all serious. When had I ever killed for the Emperor?

"Pfft, I don't know, Sergeant. D'you remember we were fighting on opposite sides once?" Woulter said.

"We don't kill though. We waste Zeke. Waste him, zip him, dish him out real estate like it's in demand," Peter piped up.

Not liking what his son was saying Woulter said, "Peter, it's not—"

"Nah, he's got the right idea. He's learning, Tabor. You learn fast or you get saddled with a farm deal. S'how it works up here."

Leaving Woulter with no time to reply, I called down to the Highlanders. "Hey, Highlanders. Get wired."

The enthusiastic reply from the Gellen lance, Lorne, was lost when Zeke rudely announced himself with a flurry of invisible freight trains rocketing through the air to crash against our walls. With the crown of my cover pelted with dust I charged back to Aimo's position and threw myself behind the cover of the sandbags where Aimo and Arrigo were hiding. Subsiding after a fierce minute, the cacophony left a shrill ringing in our ears and the smell of warm dust in our noses. Coughing in the dirty air Aimo heaved his stubber onto the hardbags and dumped the wound-up belt into Arrigo's arms. From far away came the word: _contact_.

Eyes flitting left and right, I spotted a squarish shape of an armoured vehicle trundling through the smoke left by the artillery. It was not a Chimera for it did not have a turret of any kind, and was too small to be a tank. _Another troop carrier then?_

"Hold your fire, lads," I said over the growing rumble of the Zeke track. As it drew closer, breaking through the worst of the smoke, I saw another two trailing behind it in single file. Some ploy of Zeke to disguise his numbers it seemed. Raising my glasses I scanned the lead track, taking note of the sloped front armour, a spiked bulldozer blade, and the strange skull adornments across the upper hull. A hatch opening caught my eye. From within the track a very large man, a man in thick, bulky armour and a full face helmet rose, taking the grips of the vehicle's pintle-mounted automatic; a twin-linked bolter.

"Contact. Nathaniel!" I yelled, slinging my rifle and picking up my Castra. Rifles would no longer cut it. Zeke had dropped all pretences now and was responding to our continuing defiance with extreme measures. If Nathaniel was deployed in our sector then Zeke was really struggling.

 _If we break now…_ I tried not to think of the consequences of our defence crumbling to Nathaniel. Fumbling with the ladder sights of my grenade launcher I slapped them back down upon realising the folly of attempting to engage light armour head-on with 40-millimetre.

"Keep hold of this sector. Do not let it fall!" I shouted to Aimo. "I'm going upstairs."

"How are supposed to kill Nathaniel?" Arrigo called after me.

Bursting out onto the ruined rooftop I slipped down beside Izuru who was tracking the lead Nathaniel vehicle with her autocannon. I paid her a brief glance to affirm she was alright before aiming a hand at the track. "Nathaniel track. Hit it!"

Izuru looked at me like I was mad before tapping a finger against her ear. Obliging, I stuffed both fingers into my ears and waited, feeling the terrific thunderclap of the gun grip my heart and squeeze it. Raising my head above the smoke dispelled from the muzzle brake I noticed the lead track had taken a hit to its left-hand treads, forcing the vehicle to a halt and making it swing to one side. Not dissuaded by his mount's sudden loss of momentum, the gunner brought his bolters to bear and let fly in the direction of Aimo's firing position. Needing no guidance from me, Izuru effortlessly acquired the Marine's head and sent a second round of 20-millimetre downrange. Scooping up my glasses to observe the results, I saw a mess of red gore splattered across the track's roof. Nathaniel had taken the round full in the face, ripping his helmet into pieces and spraying the contents of his eviscerated skull outwards in a shower of white bone, grey brain matter, and bloody hunks of flesh.

Elated, I went to congratulate Izuru. She however would not emote, shunting all feelings aside in favour of cold, rigid purpose. It was in the same calculated, killer's manner that she began to track the other two vehicles which had broken formation and increased their dispersion. Both gunners were now occupying themselves with pouring fire into the bastion's walls but neither apparently was able to work out where the disabling shots had come from, leading them to spray in a wide pattern in the hope of suppressing the marksman.

Izuru was taking her time finding an aiming point for her third shot. Both vehicles were now jinking, their drivers taking a less direct route towards the bastion gate. Depressingly Izuru's third shot missed by an unknown margin, only serving to attract the gunner's fire, both of them noticing the smoke from the gun's muzzle and turning their bolters to cover the roof. Flattening myself in the dirt I heard the whiz of the gyrojet rounds pass overhead and the little explosions each one gave a fraction of a second after they lodged themselves in the wall beneath us.

Pinned by the bolters Izuru was unable to fire before the tracks charged below her cannon's field of fire, reaching the cover of the gatehouse complex and crunching to a halt.

"Set up on other side." I pointed to the south-facing wall.

Growling, Izuru scooped up the autocannon in her arms, the strain of the gun's massive weight etched in her face.

"I've got it." I rushed to help, grabbing hold of the barrel, yelping when I felt the heat it had gathered.

"Leave it!" Izuru snapped, slamming the bipod legs onto the south-facing parapet and folding the rear monopod up. "Retire. I will let nothing past."

Fleeing the roof I heard and felt the repeated crashes of explosive charges on the gate, Nathaniel seeking to capitalise his recent gains from the safety of the gatehouse. Equal amounts of fear and excitement coursed through my system as I leapt down the stairs. The prospect of engaging Nathaniel in close combat brought on a shiver.

* * *

2nd Lieutenant Leesha D'ambrosia calmly removed her soft cover and tucked it inside her flak vest, taking the proffered helmet from her ordonnance. With the Chaos Space Marines at the gate, D'ambrosia had withdrawn a single section of the pioneer platoon from the defence and arranged them in ambush posture for the counterattack. Now, lined up in the darkness of the corridor that led out onto the courtyard, D'ambrosia listened to the thumps coming from outside, swallowing her rising fear. Alleviating her concern was the platoon's single flamethrower team preparing their weapon for use beside her. Private Jerram Hamer and Cal Essars, after first fuelling the left tank – the right was reserved for pressure – connected the hydraulic hose for the gun to the fixed tube that curved around the tanks and adjusted the regulator. With that connected Hamer, the operator, pulled the squeeze trigger which opened the valve, allowing the gelled promethium to flow through, pressurising the gun. Inside the muzzle were six igniter cartridges to set off the fuel, each running for eight seconds. Pulling the front trigger would fire the cartridge, quickly summoning the fuel and delivering searing gouts of flame up to a range of forty yards.

"Ready?" asked D'ambrosia as Hamer slipped his arms through the carrier's straps. She received a firm, assured nod in return. Both men were well-used in employing the Accatran Mk. IC in combat, be it against strongpoints or personnel.

"Standby, flamer." D'ambrosia raised a balled fist, concentrating on the now-rhythmic crashes of the Marines battering relentlessly against the weakening gate. The swiftness with which they were bashing their way through was unnerving.

At last the barrier gave and the lead Rhino barrelled through, forcing the twisted, blackened edges of the opening inwards, dragging along the track's flanks in a shriek of metal on metal. Tensing, D'ambrosia opened her mouth to order the flamer team in when there was a sharp crack from the bastion roof. Confusion took hold when the uninterrupted bellow of the track's engine faltered.

 _That mercenary with the autocannon,_ D'ambrosia realised with a stab of envy. _Throne of Terra, she is making us look incompetent._ Seething, D'ambrosia heard a collision, one of the Rhinos colliding with a wall. By the sound of it, it was the lead track as the vehicle behind it was forced to halt in the courtyard.

"Now!" D'ambrosia threw open the door and waved Hamer and Essars forwards. Weighed down by the seventy-pound tanks, Hamer loped out into the open, followed by Essars. Seeing the first Rhino buried partly in the wall and apparently immobile after the damage the autocannon had dealt it, D'ambrosia signalled Hamer to target the second Rhino. Aiming his muzzle at the track, Hamer touched the trigger, the cartridge inside igniting with a _pop_ and a puff of smoke. Hearing the pop, the Rhino gunner, raking the bastion wall behind him, noticed the flamer and hauled his weapon around. Hamer was quicker, projecting a billow of flame across the Rhino's hull, dousing the Marine in burning promethium.

Blowing her whistle, D'ambrosia called for the remainder of 1 Section to form up behind her, ready to pick off any of the track's occupants trying to flee the blaze. Easing off after his two-second burst, Hamer turned his weapon upon the other track, popped his second igniter and let loose with another burst. With the choice of cooking alive inside the Rhinos or braving the guns outside, Marines coated in fire tumbled out of hatches, blindly letting fly with their bolters in all directions.

"Flamer, retire!" D'ambrosia screamed, scooting out of her pioneers' line of fire and taking up her own lasgun upon joining the firing line. "One Section. Chaos Marines to your front. Full charge. Fire at will!"

Pumping volley after volley of particle beams into the Marines wreathed in fire, many of them clawing in vain at the gel-like substance that caused the promethium to stick to their armour, the Siphanis picked out eye lenses, arm and leg joints, scoring hits upon the sensitive areas, putting the Marines down one by one. A great pride welled within D'ambrosia when her pioneers resolutely stood firm and returned everything the Marines threw at them in the manner of true soldiers of the Emperor. When Siphani after Siphani fell from final spite-fuelled bursts of the dying abominations, still they did not break.

"Cease fire!" D'ambrosia shouted as the last Marine fell clawing at a chainsword he had been on the verge of swinging at the Siphani ranks. Where the courtyard had been filled with the crackle of repeated las volleys and the thump of bolters, a silence now took hold. Siphanis lowered weapons, seeing their quarry for the first time lying around, half-in, half-out of the Rhinos. Both had become a sweltering inferno.

* * *

Preoccupied with the passengers of the immobile track that had not made it inside the bastion I tossed away a smoking casing from my Castra and threw a quick glance back over my shoulder. "Sounds like they wasted those Nathaniel tracks good an' proper," I said to myself.

"What?!" Aimo, slightly-deaf from repeated firing – he was doing his level best to keep the distant Marines suppressed, no easy task with a rifle-calibre weapon – looked up at me with a bewildered expression. Both of his cheeks, nose, and forehead were black from dirt. A pair of twitchy eyes, red and unblinking roved about. I could not have looked any better. Arrigo too was equally grubby.

"They're holding the courtyard," I said loudly in Aimo's ear.

"They're holding the courtyard?" Aimo repeated.

"Yeah." I nodded and gave a thumbs up. "Number one."

"Alright then. Why didn't you say?" Aimo grinned, squeezing off a short, three-round-burst from his IM. "Keep that belt coming, Arrigo."

"Not enough to fire more than a couple of bursts." Arrigo ducked as bolts clattered against the wall above, dumping warm fragments of masonry on our heads.

Still hanging on on the furthest point of our right flank, Lance Corporal Lorne ran up and let loose with a truly bizarre question. "Any o' you lads backed up?"

"Any of us what – backed up?" I pulled a face, dumbfounded.

"Listen, I got a barrel gonna rupture in a burst or two. Me and my lads 'ave got dry bladders. I need a good pisser."

"Take – take Colvin or Rhidian, see if one of them can sort you out," I said, searching my leather bandolier for any spare shells. "How are you for ammo?"

"We're light for brass, but we'll hang on 'til you say, Sarn't." Lorne scarpered, pulling a reluctant Colvin along with him. Short for discipline though they were I was glad the Highlanders were holding down our right flank. An idea to use them as a scratch fireteam was forming in my mind. The Gellens combined with a few of the more aggressive company men to rebuff any close assault Zeke or Nathaniel might attempt upon the walls.

The anticipated assault came without delay, though it was no combined infantry and armour assault as I expected. I don't think anybody expected the tactics Zeke would attempt with every single one of his previous sorties vanquished. Needless to say, Nathaniel took us by surprise.

"Contact. Nathaniel's got jump packs!" Came a frantic cry.

Soaring from the smoke five Marines in blue armour and wings adorning their helmets dove down upon the bastion, the inordinate grace with which they avoided the shots fired up at them aggravating. Nothing so heavily armoured should have been able to weave about the sky like that. That was until a solid crack rang from the bastion roof, breaking the odd charm of invulnerability that the five Marines had. Punching clean through the unlucky Marine's right shoulder guard, the kinetic force of the 20-mil slug very nearly sheared his arm off, leaving a faint trail of pink in his wake, and knocking him into a uncontrollable spin that he was unable to right before crash-landing.

"Throne, she's good," Aimo crowed, walking a burst of .30-cal over the Marine's body.

 _What would we do without her?_ I thought in admiration, for a moment ignoring the other threats over the crack marksmanship displayed, or rather markswomanship; if such a term existed.

Undeterred by the fate of their brother the four Marines split into pairs and slammed down onto the top of the wall, one pair above each sector. Feeling the bastion tremble from the impact I ran down the length of the firing line, grabbing every other grunt and sorting them into a fireteam.

"Highlanders, we got Nathaniel on the wall. Let's throw 'em off," I shouted, waving at the trio to follow me. "Corp, your lot's with me."

Shrewdly understanding that hand weapons would do little but tickle Nathaniel, Lorne came up carrying a sledgehammer alongside his slung M-36. Borens and Tsak respectively carried a pickaxe and a shovel along with their personal weapons. Not caring where they had scrounged the tools, I led the party down to the courtyard, avoiding the blistering heat the two Nathaniel tracks gave off, and up the steps that led onto the wall. Signalling a halt just before the head of the stairs I crouched by the wall and looked back at the line of faces waiting expectantly for my go.

"Grenades," I murmured, setting down my Kazalak and taking a bomb from my trouser pocket. Tearing the adhesive I had wrapped around the body off, I worked the stiff ring out. At the soft clink of falling grenade pins behind I drew back my arm, keeping the spoon held down, and in unison we launched the bombs up onto the wall.

* * *

Lieutenant D'ambrosia was not pleased when she, leading her pioneers up to the top of the wall at the western sector, came upon a party of Cannon Company led by Staff Sergeant Perandis that were gathered near the head of the steps. "Staff Sergeant, remove your men. This is my action," she hissed, keeping her voice low out of concern the nearby Marines would hear.

"Nothing doing, ma-am," Perandis said flatly. "Mister Corta ordered us to repel Nathaniel. We're following his orders."

"Clear the way then." D'ambrosia gestured at Hamer and Essars. "Flamer, front and centre. We will deal with this."

Watching with thinly-veiled disapproval Perandis and his men hung back, allowing D'ambrosia's section to take point.

 _Let us see what traitors are made of_ , D'ambrosia thought smugly, motioning Sergeant Levauz' section, squashed in amongst Perandis' section, to hold back. Private Hamer would take care of the Marines. A pity D'ambrosia could not do it herself. The most she could contribute was an extra lasgun in the firing line.

Sticking her whistle into her mouth D'ambrosia gave a sharp _toot_ and leapt up onto the wall, shouting, "flamer. Chaos Marines thirty yards to your front. Fire!"

Tottering into position Hamer popped his third igniter, levelled his nozzle, and fired a long streak of burning fuel down the length of the wall. Responding with viper-like reflexes both Marines launched themselves skywards, avoiding the fire.

"One Section!" D'ambrosia fell in with the assembling firing line and continued. "Bring them down. Fire at will!"

"Two Section. By the lieutenant's order," Sergeant Levauz commanded, taking aim as his section filed rapidly in behind D'ambrosia's. "Seek out the eyes and joints."

Without the handicap of promethium-coated armour the Marines returned fire, their bolt pistols wreaking havoc upon the two sections, cutting through flak armour like it was paper.

"DISPERSE!" D'ambrosia bellowed when the Marines dropped back down from their flight, both brandishing power swords. "Reform in firing line."

Unable to fire for fear of immolating their comrades the flamer was withdrawn. At D'ambrosia's behest 1 Section, badly mauled by the Marines' bolt pistols, retreated along the wall leaving 2 Section to face the brunt of the Marines' assault.

"Sergeant!" D'ambrosia signalled in desperation for Levauz and his men to clear their line of fire. "One Section. Chaos Marines twenty yards to your front. Two discharges. F-"

Before D'ambrosia could complete the fire order Perandis and the Cannon Company men barged across her. "Right, lads, take 'em from behind!" Perandis shouted, putting a round from his .338 into the back of the nearest Marine's knee joint. Startled by the sudden showing of reinforcements, the Marines tried to take off, only one succeeding when the other's jump pack - damaged from the slugs and lasbeams - misfired.

Seeing her opportunity D'ambrosia blew her whistle and relayed a fire command to her section. "Bring it down!"

Bright sparks from multiple impacts upon the Marine's armour showed when the fragments of 1 Section gave a volley. Whether luck or their marksmanship was the deciding factor, D'ambrosia took personal satisfaction when the overconfident Marine was brought down, disappearing below the parapet in a trail of black smoke.

Surrounded, the grounded Marine came under reinvigorated assault, the combined power of the Siphani and Cannon small arms weakening him enough to sap the energy from his swings.

"Brought you down to our level now, you bastard. How's it feel?" Perandis glared fiercely.

On his knees now, the Marine turned to face Perandis. Even with the muzzle of Perandis' .338 aimed at his eye, the Marine said nothing. The grill where his mouth would be was mangled.

"No words. No trouble." Sneering, Perandis shot the Marine in the eye, the round obliterating the red lense, burying itself deep in the Marine's skull, making him topple over backwards. From within his giant fist, a cylindrical object fell. Reacting faster than anyone else Perandis seized the grenade, stuffed it inside his flak vest and dived onto the Marine's corpse. In comparison to the rush of clamouring grunts trying to flee for their lives Perandis, lying in an almost intimate manner with the Marine, never made a sound right up to when the grenade took him from the land of the living.

* * *

"Go! Go!" At the head of the Highlanders I skipped the final step, jumping up onto the bastion wall, taking cover behind a square of stone that jutted out at intervals along the wall, offering one man solid cover. With the smoke from the grenade blasts still hanging in place further down I could not see where the two Marines had landed.

"Come on, move up," I whispered, favouring a more cautious approach now in case of ambush. Lorne, one hand on his sledgehammer, advanced up the left side, nodding back at Borens and Tsak to follow. Aimo, leaving his empty IM downstairs, set the Highlander's piss-smelling Rekyl upon the south parapet at the head of the stairs, covering us. His diligence paid off when it was he who caught sight of the Marines before any of us.

"Contact!" Aimo's warning was followed by a short burst of .30-cal zipping into the smoke, impacting like hammers upon the Marines' armoured hide.

"Contact front." I raised my Kazalak and squeezed off a shot. The Marines were still invisible to me but quite evidently they were there. "Give it to 'em, lads."

Whistling to his companions, Lorne stole forwards, a grenade in his other hand.

"That's it. Flush those bastards out," Kat, next to me, hissed gleefully.

"Move up, Kat." I jerked my head.

"Roger." Scuttling past me in a low crouch, Kat moved to the next piece of cover.

Bolter fire came from the smoke, replying to Aimo's Rekyl. Standing up I pumped my KA's trigger, switching to automatic in the hope the APIs would grab the Marines' attention enough for the Highlanders and Kat to get within grenade range.

"Come on, Izuru, what you—"

My Kazalak unexpectedly blowing up in my face made me lose my footing. Believing I was hit I dropped my rifle and fell backwards, landing on my back in a daze. From faraway someone, Aimo probably, cried, "Larn's hit."

Hands underneath my armpits dragged me back to Aimo's firing position.

"Where you hit, James. Can you stand?" Aimo shouted between bursts.

"I'm not – I'm not." I knocked away hands that were trying to undo the poppers of my flak jacket. "My fucking rifle blew up."

"What?"

"It blew up," I raged, taking up my Castra as replacement for the destroyed Kazalak. "Bad ammo or something."

"You alright?"

"Yeah, fine." I shook my hands, both of them sore from the violent buck the KA gave. The episode where my .338 had disintegrated on Grendel flashed across my mind. Again I was lucky nothing had gone in my eyes and blinded me.

"Lucky day, mate."

A shot passing overhead made us both duck. Part whiz, part whip-like crack, I recognised the painful wallop of the autocannon. Izuru was paying attention after all. _The angel with the autocannon,_ I thought in relief.

"Keep up the base of fire here. I'm moving," I said to Aimo, charging into the smoke after the Highlanders. Sharp _crumps_ of grenades ahead punctuated the melee. One of the Marines was down, his chestplate crushed from the force of the autocannon. Concussive blows had been dealt to his helmet which was dented severely; both eyepieces were shattered too. Mechanical grunts were given by the last Marine on his feet who was swinging his sword around in a battle frenzy and firing his bolt pistol at the Highlanders, all of whom were taking it in turns to fire snapshots from behind cover. Again Izuru did for Nathaniel, landing a shot on the Marine's torso, crumping his chestplate in the same manner as the other. Hooting at the tops of their voices, the Highlanders closed the gap between them and the Marine, looking to finish him off without firearms.

"Show me them lovely gnashers!" Lorne cried as he swung his sledgehammer into the Marine's helmet, his stout strength enough to put a severe dent in the grill. Setting about Nathaniel with pickaxe, sledgehammer and shovel, the Highlanders savagely beat the life out of him.

"Kat?" Panting I slumped against the broken wall. "Oi, talk to me."

Frozen, his eyes locked on the cloudy sky, Kat raised a hand, touching his ear.

"What, more Nathaniel?" Scooping up my Castra, I strained to hear through my ringing ears.

I felt the vibration of the incoming before I heard it. Kat's startled, wide-eyed face tilted sideways as the wall beneath me fell away. A great wave of heat, dust, and debris washed over me when I fell. Coming to after a second's blackness I realised I was bareheaded, bleeding, and lying in the destruction of the bastion wall. There was a long silence, and I heard a small voice saying, "I've been hit," which I realised was mine. That couldn't be right; so I called out in a slurred voice, "is anybody hurt?"

No reply came. Irritated that the others were ignoring me, I repeated, "is anybody hurt?"

A wetness was coating my face and running down my right arm, soaking through the material of my smock and shirt, sticking to my skin. Blinking the blood out of my eyes I inhaled shakily, coughing as I inhaled the dust hanging in the air, eventually saying, "I'm hit. I'm hit."

* * *

 **The Citadel, Kasr Kraf, 20:15**

"My Lord, the lord inquisitor does demand your presence aboard the Zarkaniy."

Sitting in his spacious office with his boots up on his desk, Osvat Radu Zeleska awoke from his doze, pressing the talk button on the inbuilt comm without lifting his head up. "Thank you, Lenz," Zeleska droned, swiftly cutting the connection before his lackey could further impress the lord inquisitor's wishes upon him. Resting his forehead in his hand, Zeleska slowly exhaled mildly-scented smoke from the Lho-stick he held over a gold-plated ashtray and pondered on his future. Maybe it was time to depart Cadia? The red-haired xenos had come so close to falling into his clutches but damnably had slipped through; eluding his spy network. Privately Zeleska was proud of the collection of informants he had acquired in such a short space of time. The liberal distribution of coin was certainly the deciding factor in it. Money however would never entice the acolytes of the Adeptus Mechanicus into informing for him, their devotion to the Omnissiah surpassing all. _And that hulking abomination now in possession of the girl_ , Zeleska gripped the butt of the plasma pistol resting in the mess on his desk and aimed it at an imaginary AdMech in silent rage. _And that excursion to the facility leaving me looking the fool,_ he thought back to the skirmish with the Skitarii. At least it left him with the Scions to use however he liked, so it was not a total loss.

An obnoxious buzz at his door interrupted Zeleska's thoughts. The voice of his right-hand, Argus Degrelle, came on over the speakers. "My Lord, news from our man in Cannon Company."

Slapping his hands on the tabletop, Zeleska ordered Degrelle in. He knew he had forgotten something important. "Well out with it, man. I want news," Zeleska exclaimed. If Degrelle had the nerve to bring him bad news of any kind he would cart him off to his interrogator cohorts for an afternoon session. No questions would be asked of course, for there was nothing to find out. Zeleska knew just who tortured for information and who did it for kicks in the Cadian Inquisitorial Cell. For Degrelle it would surely be the latter.

"My Lord, both marks are within the outer perimeter," Degrelle said.

"The informant said this specifically? Those were his exact words?" Zeleska leant forwards eagerly.

"Yes, My Lord. Bastion Thirty-Three is where they are. Shall I send a squad to bring them here?"

Clapping his hands, Zeleska sprang to his feet, buzzing with energy. "I will go there in person. The Scions shall accompany me; all of them. Oh and get me a platoon of Interior Guard. I don't want anything to happen."

"Yes, My Lord." Degrelle bowed and retreated.

"Trade one xenos for another," Zeleska muttered, a smile ghosting his lips. Leaving his finely-crafted plasma pistol in his drawer he took his laspistol with him instead, tucking it into his black leather shoulder holster. "I asked and you provided, young man."

* * *

 **Bastion 33, 20:18**

With the passing of the hour Cannon Company and the Voynuk Siphanis had successfully resisted Chaos attack for twelve hours. _A fine feat for the humans to boast about,_ thought Izuru. Noting the neglect the humans had displayed with acquiring their casualties' identifiers, Izuru had taken it upon herself to gather the dead mens' identity disks, wrapping them into a bundle in her fist with the intention of delivering them to Lieutenant Corta. She felt she owed Cannon Company that much. The same could not be said for the dark-skinned humans, especially their officer.

Arriving well before 2200, the relief came in the form of a reinforced platoon of Tech-Guard; Skitarii their formal name. Marching up from the rear with no fanfare, the Skitarii – mechanical, vaguely human-shaped bipeds clad in red robes – silently assumed Cannon's positions, the Alpha in command outright ignoring the Flesh-Guard, letting them withdraw quietly.

The defenders had scarcely gone half a kilometre down the road before falling out. With many dead and many more bound to stretchers, blundering along bombed-out roads in the gathering dusk would only see Cannon's problems arise once more. So it was, the thirty men of C Company, and the twenty of the Siphanis took up squatting in a complex of bombed-out hab-blocks on either side of the road, thoroughly spent and absolutely refusing to march a step further.

Seeking out Lieutenant Corta, Izuru found him occupying a ground floor room with an intact roof. Losing her headscarf during the battle Izuru had swiped a patrol cap with earflaps and a pair of dust goggles attached to keep up her disguise. Though having fought a successful action with the imperials Izuru was still an enemy alien, and likely the reveal of her species would warrant a violent reception. Once more then she assumed the role of mercenary captain.

In Corta's company was a human tending to a vox set, working by the weak red light of a torch beam. Both men, Izuru noticed, had taken superficial wounds and their uniforms were torn in places.

"Your pardon." Izuru approached warily, holding out the bundle of tags. "I would see these delivered to the officer commanding."

Jumping at Izuru's voice, the signaller shot an uncertain glance at Corta.

"Thank you, Captain." Corta accepted the tags woodenly and stowed them inside an empty ammunition pouch. "Bloody work earlier."

"That it was," Izuru replied.

"Please join our company." Corta pulled out his canteen and offered it to Izuru. "Sorry for the quality of the water. We had to boil it beforehand."

"I am grateful for your charity, Lieutenant, but I must gracefully decline." Izuru bowed and ducked out of the hab. She was not in the mood for parley with the strangers. Rubbing her right shoulder – aching as it was from the kick of the autocannon – Izuru ghosted through C-for-Cannon's wounded, seeking out the humans from Nemtess, those she was more inclined to trust than the others. Observing Aimo Garst and Cyrano sitting with the Scribe, Colvin, and Arrigo, Izuru padded forwards, her curiosity rising. The five wore solemn expressions. Aimo, his shoulders drooping, was holding a broken cord in his hands, at the end of it a pair of round metal tags.

"Who?" Izuru spoke in a softly venomous whisper, startling Colvin and Arrigo.

Never turning a hair at Izuru's presence, Aimo muttered, "he was one of us."

"No finer fellow," Cyrano said gloomily.

A human in dirt-stained olive grey fatigues lay face-up on a tarpaulin. He was not the only one to lose his life during the siege of the bastion, a fact Izuru was well aware of for she had picked up many tags throughout her search. This one though, his death was being felt by the men. She almost wished she could share their sorrow. But she did not know the human lying there in the middle of his friends who were clustered around him.

"Old Kat never did tell us his real name," said Aimo, rubbing the metal underneath his thumb. "It was Elias, y'know."

"I don't know about Elias. Brother is better." Cyrano closed his eyes in prayer, Colvin and Arrigo following suit. With no further words to say, Aimo pointed Izuru away from his group to where Larn was sitting alone and out of sight.

Glad to be away, feeling out of place as she was in the humans' company, Izuru bit down on the acute embarrassment that had briefly risen to plague her. Kat was their friend and she had no right intruding on their mourning. It was trespassing, and she was guilty of it.

 _Isha forgive me. I meant no intrusion. Let them mourn undisturbed as is the right of all species._

Perched on a little outcrop of rubble that had once been a corner foundation of a hab-block, Larn watched the last traces of the light disappear on the western horizon. He was without cover with a tied dressing on his head, naked from the waist up, and wearing only a thin bandage that circled his upper chest and right shoulder. Every so often he glanced down at something in his lap. His hands perhaps? The poor soul was thin, pitifully so and there was a deathly pale hue to his skin. Coming up behind him with deliberate clumsiness so as not to spook him, Izuru gave a shake of her head at the pitiful sight and undid the clasps of her assault vest, shrugging it off and undoing the buttons of her jacket. Removing it Izuru draped her jacket over Larn's shoulders like a cloak then picked up her vest and donned it over her khaki t-shirt.

"Had to be me," Larn said gruffly. "Weren't no-one else left to do it. I've got to do it right, see?"

Leaning over Larn's shoulder, Izuru saw the broken pencil and thin scrap of paper he had. There was writing on the creased paper. The words, _Mister and Mrs Sinric_ were written in an untidy scrawl, nearly ineligible. _The parents of Larn's friend Martti._

"Nearly forgot, I did. Wanted you to help me out too. I'm not good with words. Never got taught how to use 'em properly. Only language they taught us in the Guard was the fist, the boot, and the bayonet."

"It is a noble thing. My heart yearns for such close friends as those you have, little human." Izuru stepped around to Larn's front, silently appalled at the state of his face which bore dirt in immeasurable quantity: cuts, bruises, and red marks where bits of rubble had embedded in the skin. A red vein was prominent in the left eye, both of which were bloodshot. Purple lines underneath them gave him a weary, dog-tired visage. Dried blood covered everything. He had no water to clean it off.

"Us little humans beat Nathaniel though," Larn said.

"To lead an assault against such foes takes great courage from within." Gently Izuru brushed Larn's chin, something he did not rebuke. "Small of body but stout of heart."

"We're all in your debt." Larn smiled weakly, his dry, cracked lips making it painful to do so. "You're the best grunt I've ever fought with. And you ain't even human."

"High praise from one so insignificant."

"It's the best you're gonna get from us. They don't know – well, most of 'em don't know – that it were a stickie that wasted a load of Nathaniel. Prob'ly best to keep it that way."

"Agreed." Izuru's fingertips brushed the dressing on Larn's head. "Were there any other way…"

"There's not."

"No. Now is the time for swift departure, though I do not do it willingly."

"Keladi's more important than this grubby mob," Larn said, taking Izuru's hands in his. "It's hard, I know. Peter, Woulter, Aimo, we'll make it off alright. We're going home, Izuru. But you can't come with us."

"You. You." Izuru clutched hers and Larn's hands together and pressed them to her chest. "I… I admit I have a certain fondness for the human race…"

"Which is wrong, yeah. Your lot and mine hate one another with good reason. But I don't see why anything personal should come of it. I don't hate Zeke. Woulter, Peter, the Highlanders, they were fighting with Zeke before, and they're good people. Well, mostly..."

"Let me—" Izuru made to kneel down, positioning herself at Larn's level.

"No. I can't look down on you. That's wrong." Larn instead stood up on the outcrop, now face to face with Izuru. "'Bout the only time I'm ever gonna be able to look you in the eye, eh?" He grinned.

"It does present for an out of the ordinary view." Izuru returned the smile.

The red glare of a torchbeam incited Izuru to pull Larn down from the outcrop quickly before it fell upon him. "Quiet and still," she hissed, pushing him down a short slope.

"Oi, get down here with me." Larn waved.

"Mercenary!" the Siphani officer D'ambrosia cried sharply, the torchbeam fixing upon Izuru, bathing her in its glare. "If you will accompany me."

* * *

" _Oh, shit_." Hugging the rough ground I scrambled back up the slope, crawling forwards on near all-fours after D'ambrosia and her party. Fuming at being caught half-naked and unarmed I pulled Izuru's jacket on, oblivious that it was too large, and hurried in the direction the Siphanis were taking Izuru in. Passing the four cooks by I stopped dead when Gale passed his Lecta up to me. "You've got a troubled look on your face, Larn. Reckon something's about to go boom."

"Cheers, Gale, I'll pay you back." I took the weapon and, making sure it was charged, made quickly over to the hab where Corta had settled but finding only Wharton there.

"Where's Mister Corta?"

"I dunno. Out by the road I think, Sarn't."

Coming close to losing my cool I held back by the doorway and saw the gathering out in the middle of the road. D'ambrosia, wanting a scene, had Izuru surrounded by her pioneers and under threat from the bayonet affixed to the muzzle of D'ambrosia's lasgun. Corta was nowhere in sight.

"Tell me what you were sent here to do, spy," D'ambrosia spat, her face livid.

Remaining statuesque Izuru stared straight ahead stoically, not even bothering to raise her hands; refusing to be intimidated. Admirable though Izuru's bravery was, it would not help her if D'ambrosia found out the truth.

"Tell me." Reaching across D'ambrosia yanked Izuru's cap off. "Stickie." She moved her bayonet upwards, cutting a long, straight line in Izuru's cheek. "All xenos must burn."

 _Where the hell is Corta?_ I swallowed, looking down at the cold metal in my hands.

"TELL ME!" D'ambrosia roared, pressing sharply underneath Izuru's chin, forcing her head backwards.

Rushing out of the blasted doorway I touched the Lecta's trigger, letting off a single shot into the sky. The sharp gunshot had the Siphanis scattering in alarm, most of them weary from the day's action and not in the mood for any further shooting. Only a few reacted sharply, unslinging their lasguns and training them on me with practised swiftness.

"Put it down, ma-am!" I said, trying to keep the tremble from my voice.

Refusing point blank, D'ambrosia whipped out her laspistol and used her left hand to aim at me, never removing the bayonet from Izuru's chin. "You xenos-loving cur," D'ambrosia shouted, adding a handful of choice words in a language I did not understand. "Die."

It was reflex. I did not want to shoot D'ambrosia. My mind said no, everything else said no, but the muscle in my left fore-finger thought otherwise, squeezing the trigger as D'ambrosia did the same.

"STOP!" Simon Corta yelled as my burst caught D'ambrosia in the chest and shoulders, putting her on the floor in a gasping heap. "Larn, stand down."

Plucking the lasgun from D'ambrosia's twitching fingers, Izuru plunged the bayonet into the stomach of the nearest Siphani, stabbing and withdrawing as quickly as she would with a knife and shooting another Siphani who was closeby from the hip.

"Izuru, stop it!" Hurriedly setting down Gale's Lecta I rushed over and tried to get a grip on the weapon and wrestle it away, receiving a kick in the gut from her. Collapsing bent-double, I was pulled away from Izuru by Corta.

"That's enough, Private," Corta said angrily, forced to put me in a chokehold.

Starved for breath I wheezed like an invalid, watching through streaming eyes as Izuru was surrounded and mobbed by Siphanis, going down under rising and falling buttstocks.

"Break it up!" Dumping me with Aimo Corta waded into the throng of Siphanis and fired shots from his laspistol into the air. "Get Lieutenant D'ambrosia on a stretcher now!"

"What have you done, mate?" Aimo looked at me with worry, keeping his hand clamed upon my shoulder.

"Break it up, you lot." Corta threw off the last of the Siphanis. "I require a firing squad. Any volunteers?"

"Don't do it, mate. They'll shoot you too," Aimo pleaded, seeing me eyeing Gale's Lecta where I had dropped it. "I'm sorry."

Forbidding the Siphanis to go near Izuru, Corta ordered Cannon grunts to haul her battered body up and place her against the wall. When no volunteers came forward he began picking men at random. Three Siphanis, three Cannon. None of the Cannons were men I knew.

"What's happening?" Peter Leurbach asked in disbelief. Near to tears that Corta was ordering a battlefield execution. "Dad?"

"Quiet, Peter," Woulter said sharply. "Let it happen."

 _No, please no. Somebody give me something,_ I prayed for an outside intervention, my blood turning to ice. _Anyone?_

It was not I that was given something with which to save Izuru though. It came from the night, in growling, wheeled, mechanical form. A bright spotlight came on, illuminating everything in white light, clear as day, blinding Corta who was preparing to give the order.

A sharp whistle was blown behind the spotlight as troops were disgorged from transports rolling up the road towards us. The loud tramp of heavy boots preceded first a platoon of Cadian Interior Guardsmen on the flanks, and then a smaller unit of soldiers in all black that surrounded a tall, bareheaded man in a grey jerkin. The man I recognised as the one who had called himself Osvat.

"It's him," I murmured, the brief instance of relief now replaced with an even colder fear.

Downright ignoring the gobsmacked Corta, Osvat – still surrounded by his squad of black-armoured guards, pointed at Izuru and beckoned to her, smiling and nodding pleasantly. Seeing his jovial manner I balled my fists tightly, digging my fingernails deeply into my palms. _How dare he even look at her, the arrogant_ _bastard._

Keeping her composure, a monumental endeavour after the beating she had withstood, Izuru stumbled forwards into the Inquisitor's party, having no other option. Further giving rise to the bubbling anger inside me, the Inquisitor scanned our faces as he walked by, stopping when he recognised mine.

"Thank you, young man. You've been very helpful." Osvat beamed, inviting Izuru to walk at his shoulder. It was all I could do to stand dead-still as if on parade and listen to the Inquisitor depart with Izuru into the night. I had delivered her into his arms exactly as he had ordered.

I had never wished death on a person up until then. The Inquisitor was the first and the last.


	37. Chapter 36

**Kasr Kraf, Aptus District**

At 2200 hours the 5000 men of the Cadian rearguard withdrew from their positions along the northern bastion wall, trading places with the warriors of the Adeptus Mechanicus who would continue to hold the line against the Chaos armies long enough for the Imperial Guard to fall back within the city's limits.

Packed into the tight confines of a Hennus lorry with the remaining thirty men in C Company, Acting-Sergeant Aimo Garst sat squeezed in between James Larn and Cyrano Semirechye, his arm around the former's shoulder as a gesture of comfort. Larn had taken the instant demotion Corta had issued after the incident with Lieutenant D'ambrosia and Izuru without even a murmur of discontent. No protests came out, no complaints, just blank-faced acceptance and a dumb subservience when Corta had placed him under arms. _Sorry, James_ , Aimo thought squeezing his best friend's shoulder. _It happens. It has happened. Just move on and take the punishment._

Sharing James' gloominess was the entirety of Cannon Company. Blood and dirt-covered men, a shadow of their normal selves stared listlessly into space with only the bumping of the lorry's motion jostling them out of their partial daze. Nearly all were awake; too afraid to sleep lest it invite the nightmares that had been plaguing everyone for the last week.

 _Carstan Perandis, Elias Katecka, the cook Weld, that Siphani sergeant, and Lieutenant D'ambrosia,_ Aimo counted off the names of those deceased. D'ambrosia though he was not so sure about. She had been the first to be whisked away when, at 21:30, the first of the ambulances arrived to remove the wounded to the rear, wherever it was. Aimo was not sure the term 'rear-area' would apply for much longer with the enemy closing in on the city. It was only darkness that had halted him. And come dawn he would most likely renew his assault upon the perimeter.

Though well-hardened by now to the moans of the wounded men as their stretchers were lifted inside the Medicae Hennus's, Aimo could not help but wonder what his fate would be, and when. He had survived this long, survived Nereus, Nemtess, and so far Cadia. If he was going to go then it would surely be soon for the platoon-sized remainder of the company was being trucked down to the airbase for embarkation; at least that was what he believed. _If I had to go then I'd want to go fast. I wouldn't want anyone worrying about me or having to carry me anywhere. Just let it be. I've seen a lot of men die very quickly, and a lot die extremely slowly. Getting shot in the stomach's the worst. You're awake for hours in agony, praying someone gives you an overdose of morphia. I Hope to God when it gets here it's quick._

Aimo wondered too about James. He was not aware of it but Aimo secretly admired him and above all respected him for his resilience. If Nemtess couldn't kill him then Cadia probably wouldn't either. _James Larn will survive this_ ; _that's for certain_. Aimo smiled to himself, put a little more at ease by that thought. _Maybe it's why Izuru likes him?_ The xenos issue aside Aimo had nothing but respect for Izuru. She was a crackshot and had been absolutely lethal with the company's autocannon during the fight for Bastion 33, quite likely the deciding factor in it too. _If only we had a company of women like her_. Aimo glanced sideways at James. _She's been good to you she has, mate. I just hope we see her again._

The strange man that had spoken to James in brief dug into Aimo's mind. Who was he and what interest did he have in Izuru? More to the point how did he know exactly where she was? It did not take a genius to suss that there was an informant in the company spying on her. _But who?_ Aimo's eyes passed across the faces of each man in the back of the lorry, eyeing them with suspicion. _The Highlanders? The Tabors perhaps? Or the Scribe!_ That reporter was the sole man out of place, always on his own, always snooping around. And had he not expressed an interest in Izuru beforehand? _You're going to be spitting out teeth come tomorrow morning, pal._ Aimo worked his finger joints and wrists, loosening the sores muscles. He would talk. By thunder Aimo would make him talk.

* * *

 **12th Casualty Clearing Station, Aptus District, 22:46**

By the fifth week of the invasion Major Fillip Serreck was no longer moved by the awful sights he had encountered. As he had moved south, first off Cadia Primus then down to Kasr Kraf, Serreck had become accustomed to coping with horrific injuries. But it had been a while before that stage had been reached. When the fighting started, he and his fellow surgeons were far from ready for the awful sights they were to encounter. Early on one of his colleagues was traumatised when an amputated leg was carried out of the operating theatre and handed to him. Serreck was equally shockable, having only graduated from his Medicae training two months before. His most traumatic experience occurred when he took a dressing off a patient's face only to find himself gazing into a crimson hole; the eyeball was stuck to the dressing. Even such terrible wounds failed to move him in the late stages of the invasion. When the 12th Casualty Clearing Station set up in the Aptus District Municipal building, he was ready for anything. There were no beds and no sheets at the CCS. Wounded patients were brought in by Medicae units, and had their operations on their stretchers. Those same stretchers were then laid on the floor and covered with blankets that were often blood-soaked and reeking. No medical officers were available to deal with the wounded once the surgeons had operated. Nursing orderlies were expected to deal with post-operative pain by administering shots of morphine. They were also supposed to keep everything running smoothly.

This was easier said than done given the facilities at the Muncip building. The water, though still available, had been contaminated leading to several patients falling sick when they drunk it without realising. Clean water could only be sourced by carrying 20 litre fuel cans across the road to a five-storey hab-block and boiling the contents upon the stoves inside the shared – and very sparsely-fitted – kitchen. A downside to using the fuel cans for water transportation was that when drunk it had the bitter after-taste of vehicle fuel in it. But there was no other way to move the drinkable water in large amounts. Peace and quiet was non-existent, which must have doubled the work for the staff since alert patients were much more trouble than those that were sedated by morphine and could sleep without the disturbance of the nightmares. God-Emperor help patients who were shell-shocked. The Aptus District, being Kraf's most northern borough, was routinely subject to strafing by ground attack aircraft during the day and bombing during the night. Worse was that Aptus fell just outside the limits of the city's void shield. Though it was a blessing just as much as it was a curse, for the Chaos air and artillery usually only expended their payloads upon the shield, usually, leaving the CCS mostly alone. The seven Hyperios automated missile turrets that were mounted on rooftops around the district had all been knocked out, leaving only a few Scoba 40-millimetre batteries and 'Land Pattern' Scoba and Tranta stubber emplacements to provide air defence to the district. When planes attacked and the gunners went into action some patients nearly went mad with terror forcing Serreck to rely on a combination of trickery and bluffing in order to keep the patients quiet. This deception irked him to no end but acting the part of a soldier's sweetheart or wife was all he could do to keep his patients feverish ramblings to a minimum.

One man, whose legs had been paralysed after he had been hit in the bladder, kept asking when he would be treated by the surgeon. No amount of convincing on Serreck's behalf could persuade the man that he was indeed a surgeon. To calm him down, Serreck arranged for the bandages to be removed and a new Elastoplast placed over the wound the next time the man was given morphine, so that when the man woke up, Serreck could tell him he had his operation while he was asleep. On being told this, the man felt the plaster, smiled blissfully, and went back to sleep. He was still alive when he was sent off to be evacuated from the airbase. Another strategy Serreck used to reduce his workload was to make himself scarce, except when patients called out to him. Even then, he had to creep around the ward, especially when he was carrying the urine bottle; if he was seen with it, the patients started clamouring, competing with each other to use it first.

Notwithstanding the difficult conditions, Serreck was ashamed at how callous he became. At times he could not stop himself hoping that wounded men would die so that he would have room to take on new cases who were queuing up for a spot in the CCS. With over 300 cases there was simply not enough room for everyone inside the Muncip building, forcing stretchers to be left in the driveway outside the front in tents or in the open air.

Ironically, some of the cases received their best treatment after they had died. All dead were washed, their wounds were dressed, and they were clothed in clean pyjamas. Finally they were sewn into a blanket before being buried. Every dead man and woman was given a proper burial service.

"Lorries out front, Major," an orderly said to Serreck as the surgeon was sitting at the foot of the stairs in the building's hallway with his chin in his hands.

"More wounded?" Serreck stood up, wincing as his sore feet took the weight of his body. He had not slept in three days, and was thoroughly footsore and nearing the end of his energy. "There's far too many for us to treat as it is."

Leaving the stifling confines of the Muncip building, Serreck trotted down the stone steps, through the narrow gap of wounded who were waiting to be treated. It was pleasantly cool out in the night air, and indeed Serreck might have called it a pleasant night if not for the overpowering stench of sweat, blood, and body odour that hung over the CCS like an invisible cloud. Hopeful faces looked up as he passed; many giving silent pleas for their wounds to be examined. _Not possible right now, I'm afraid,_ Serreck thought. Some degree of coldness had to be maintained in the situation, dire as it was. Serreck's only worry was that there might come a time where he became too apathetic to the plight of the wounded.

A pair of Hennus lorries, both with their rear compartments covered in canvas, had pulled up outside the seven-foot-high wall that bordered the Muncip building. Where the twin gates could normally accept the passing of a motor vehicle, the layout of the tents and arrangement of the wounded prevented any traffic from driving through, forcing the vehicles to halt in the road. With such damage to the surrounding habs and road, the normally uniformly zig-zagging carriageways were strewn with potholes and rubble that had fallen from bombed-out buildings, forming slopes that – in some cases – took up the entire roadspace, plunging the speed of any passing traffic to a painful crawl. Fires burned in places too, and with no fire brigade to tend to them, they remained alight; each blaze its own little apocalypse.

Buttoning his white coat, Serreck raised a hand in greeting to a soldier in filthy, blackened OGs when he jumped down from the cab of the lead Hennus. "Good evening. Major Fillip Serreck."

"Evening, sir." The soldier, an officer, made his weary way over to Serreck. "Second Lieutenant Simon Corta. We've come from the perimeter."

Nodding at the lieutenant, Serreck shook his hand. "How is the perimeter?"

Removing his cover and fixing the chinstrap through his belt, Corta turned and indicated the men that were dismounting the Hennus's. "Holding for now. Zeke and the Marines gave us a bit of a rough time today." Corta drew a crumpled beret from the inside of his flak jacket and arranged it on top of the mess of greasy hair that stuck up on his head.

"You held them off though?" Serreck was surprised that a mere Guard platoon had fought so hard, and against the enemy's feared shock troops. "How many men do you have here?"

"Well, there's thirty of us – we were 150 originally – and twenty of those in the grey over there. We're Cannon Company, the others are Voynuk Siphanis."

 _150 men. Eighty per cent casualties_. Tragic though it was, Serreck had seen Guard formations, Cadian and otherwise, retreating past the CCS in even worse condition. Some units had had all of their officers and NCOs killed, leaving a gaggle of privates, guardsmen, troopers, gunners, riflemen fusiliers, sappers, and signallers all wandering in one direction; Kraf. Cannon Company was lucky to have even one officer still leading them.

"Is this the only hospital in the area?" Corta asked, motioning his men to stay together in a group and not wander off.

"Oh, we're – we're not a hospital I'm afraid, just a clearing station," Serreck said quickly.

"Some of my men are wounded…"

"Er, this is Twelfth Casualty Clearing Station. It's really only the last stop before the ships. I'm just waiting for the lorries to return so I can get more wounded loaded up and driven to the evacuation points." Glancing at the ragged crowd, Serreck lowered his voice. "There's no clean water. No food. No beds. No power. And as you can see, we're overflowing. I've shut down the operating theatre too. We are very low on medical supplies. I'm sorry for your men."

"No communications, sir?"

"Infrequent despatch riders only."

"I have a man in my company I have placed under arrest."

"Haven't seen a single provost around, I'm afraid, Lieutenant."

Looking down at the dirt at his feet, Corta nodded. "Okay, okay. We won't bother you. I'd just like a place for me and my men to rest for the night. We'll be off in the direction of the smoke first thing tomorrow."

"Take them inside that hab opposite us. There's running water there but be careful you boil it first."

"Why not move the wounded over there then if there's power?"

"Impossible. Many are too sick to move. I've got three-hundred patients here, you know."

"You didn't perchance see an officer brought in not long ago? Same uniform as the Siphanis, same colour skin. Gunshot wounds to the torso."

"Sorry. We've only candles and – well – we're all a bit tired. I'm – I'm fairly sure the Siphani officer was moved on from her. We just had three ambulance-loads go down to the airbase not an hour ago."

"Thank you, Major." Corta smiled, hopeful that Leesha D'ambrosia was being safely evacuated. "Any chance of a drink?"

"Of course, plenty of it too. Just watch the aftertaste; bit sour."

* * *

Once Simon Corta had got the Cannons and Siphanis settled on the ground floor of the hab-block he picked out Acting-Sergeant Aimo Garst and Corporal Dranno to accompany him over to the CCS.

"Lumme. Didn't think it'd be as bad as this," Dranno said sombrely as he, Corta, and Aimo walked past the many tents and stretchers that dominated the front drive. Inside was worse. Walking wounded sat on the stairs, more of the stretcher-bound were lying about, and very few orderlies were moving around. Directed to the cellar, Corta led Aimo and Dranno down a set of narrow steps and into a makeshift theatre that was lit only by candles and lamps. The single bulb screwed into the ceiling was dead. Beneath it, the operating table was bare, the tools laid out on trays beside it clean.

"Major? That water you mentioned." Corta approached Major Serreck who was talking with a chaplain.

"Sorry, Lieutenant, it'll be upstairs," said Serreck. "Look for the fuel cans."

"Fuel cans?" Dranno frowned.

"Right, back upstairs, you two." Corta directed Aimo and Dranno back up the stairs, into the midst of the wounded again.

"What they putting water inside fuel cans for?" Dranno wondered aloud.

"Least they got water," Aimo muttered.

"Just look for the... look for the fuel cans," Corta strained to remain outwardly calm. The irritable business with Larn and the stickie spy had incensed him, putting a very sour taste in his mouth. That it came right after the successful defence of the bastion caused his good spirits to plummet. In some ways he wished that D'ambrosia had let her suspicions lie so the co-operation between the company and the 'mercenary' could continue unimpeded. _Damn you, Leesha_ , _for forcing my hand_ , Corta fumed. _And you, Larn, what the hell got into you?_ He knew exactly what had got into him; the stickie. Despite resembling a human, and a stunningly beautiful one at that, she was still Xenos, and therefore enemy. It could not be excused. It was heresy.

"Sir?" Aimo stepped back when Corta inadvertedly kicked a watercan with the toecap of his boot.

"What, Sergeant?" Corta gripped the handle of a can and lifted it up, passing it to Dranno. "Go on, take it back to the men, Corporal."

With Dranno out of the way, Corta braced himself for the complaints Aimo was about to bombard him with.

"Sir, I just want to say that I think executing the stickie was the wrong thing to do," Aimo said coldly.

"Oh, the wrong thing to do, _Sergeant?_ " Corta glared. "By accepting the stickie's aid, we broke protocol. We break protocol, we suffer the consequences."

"She's not a bad person, sir. She's genuinely trying to help us."

"You can confirm that for certain? Did you remember from the lectures during training: the dangers of fraternisation with xenos?"

"Yeah, yeah, sir I do. I just—"

"Your friends with Larn. Tell me what the situation is between him and the stickie."

"Not what you think, sir. Absolutely not what you think," Aimo said earnestly. "There's history yeah, but it isn't what you think. This goes back before Cadia, to Nemtess, maybe even further back than that. Honestly I don't know."

"Well then how can you know? I'm trying to find out how deeply involved Larn has been with the stickie. This is a serious breach of regulations; an article 104 case. He could be placed in a court of law, tried, and hanged for fraternisation with the enemy. And – Aimo – you have my word that is the very last thing I want for him."

"Uhh…" Aimo scratched his temple worriedly. "I can't say what Larn's been talking about with the stickie. But I know him, sir. He's a good lad, clever too. He's not dumb enough to spew out any tactical information to her."

"No, but is he dumb enough to fall for her deception and be seduced by her looks?"

"He's nineteen, sir…"

"He's old enough to kill, and kill well at that. Therefore he must be old enough to work out what the thing between his legs is for." Corta tutted in disdain, picking up a second watercan. "I can't protect him, Aimo."

"Can't we just forget 'bout this, sir? The major isn't around, or the CSM, or the commissar. We're on our own here."

"It's not them I'm concerned about."

"That man who took her."

"Do not speak about this to anyone else," Corta said firmly. "All our lives may be forfeit because of this stickie."

"Roger that, sir." Aimo looked at his commanding officer stonily. "But I'm saying, right now, I'm with Larn." With that Aimo left Corta behind before the latter could reply.

 _Bloody officers. Bloody, bloody, bloody cretins. Shower of bastards, the lot of them._ Aimo scowled despondently, kicking at the rubbish that was carried across the road in the wind. _Got to stick their foot in where it's not welcome._

Dumping the heavy can in the centre of the wide hallway, where Cannon and Siphani alike were lounging around, Aimo trekked over to Larn who sat in the corner beside a stairway, on his own. He was not one of the men who rushed over to the water to fill his canteen.

"Alright, pal?" Aimo plonked himself down beside Larn and put his arm around his shoulder. "Want a water?"

"Go 'way," Larn whispered. His arms were wrapped around his legs, which were drawn up close enough for him to rest his forehead upon his knees.

"Number one, pal. We won. We're going home tomorrow."

"Not all of us."

"Aah, I know. There'll be other six-foot-tall warrior women with autocannons waiting for you on Haven. You like it when they're taller than you, don't you?"

"Don't want any of them whores."

"Come on, James, look at me. Look at me." Aimo clasped the back of James's head when he looked up, gently leaning his head against his. "We beat Zeke. We beat Nathaniel. We won."

"Not yet."

From deep down a slow creeping dread arose in Aimo's stomach. "Aw don't, James. Don't do it."

"I'm going tonight. I've got to, mate. Everything she's done. I owe her. _We_ owe her for Bastion Three-Three."

" _Bloody hell_ ," Aimo muttered. Digging into an empty ammunition pouch he took out James' Moses and passed it over. "I told Corta I'm with you. So yeah, I'm with you. _Don't_ let him see this. You're s'posed to be under arrest."

"Mm, ta." James took the small piece and examined the many scratches upon the body, running his thumbnail along the rough wooden grips. "I need my gat."

"Your bundook got wasted. I saved your grenade launcher from the vultures. Keep it hidden now." Aimo handed the Castra and corresponding bandolier to James discreetly. "Is that Izuru's shirt?"

"Lost mine when they stripped me, didn't I?" James replied flatly. "Scumbags fleecing me of my shit."

"Er, sorry 'bout that. Corta had me acting sarn't whilst you were out. I'm – I'm actually acting sarn't now really."

"Oh, you're sucking Corta's dick now, are you?"

"Doing it for all of us, James. I know officers are all cunts but Corta was only doing it 'cause he was supposed to as an officer. If he hadn't then discipline would've shattered. I know we understand Izuru's on our side. But everyone else don't. To them she's a just a stickie. And she's got no real business taking fire for us, has she? Thought she was s'posed to be finding someone here?"

"She stayed 'cause she's trying to make up for losing her company. It's what her superiors ordered her to do, come and fight alongside us."

"Yeah but why?"

"I don't know."

"And that civvy who nicked her. Now I reckon it's the Scribe who's spying on her—"

"He's not the traitor," James butted in. "I'm the traitor. I made a deal with that bloke – an inquisitor – so me and you lot could get off light on the punishment when we first landed on Cadia. I'm the traitor."

Sitting back against the wall, Aimo stared blankly ahead, aghast at James' confession. "Shit, mate. What've you done?"

"I did it for you, Aimo. And Cyrano, and Ral, and Kat, and Rinek, and the cooks. All of us what made it here from Nemtess. I've done things I'm ashamed of and I can say now that's right up there with them."

"Did Izuru know? Did you tell her?"

"She's not stupid…"

"Well, all the more reason to go and bloody rescue her then. You owe her a sincere apology." Continuously clenching and unclenching his fist, Aimo said, "fuck it, I'm in. I'm not sucking Corta's dick. Bloody Draino can be acting sarn't for all I care." With a warm grin, Aimo grasped James' hand and squeezed. "You and me."

"I want the Highlanders too," James said, not returning Aimo's grin, his face a frozen mask.

"Cyrano too. That'll do for me. You stay here and act like you're under arms. I'm gonna go and find some gear."

"Okay, get it done. Just make it quiet-like."

* * *

 **Bastion 43, Aptus District, 02:23**

Expecting to find the sheer, two-hundred-foot-high concrete wall that made up the thirty-one sluice gates throttling the River Luten intact, Lieutenant Colonel Donjeta Lapraik was perturbed to find a safety hatch had been forced open. She, Ral Bleak, and Tom Carillo, having marched all afternoon and into the night, had found the river, and had continued along its western banks in a southerly direction, hoping to make the city's perimeter before dawn. With no contact with Zeke it seemed like they had managed to stay ahead of his advance. The discovery of the forced entry to the bastion though marred Lapraik's hopes.

"What's wrong, ma-am?" Bleak, his white face sweating from bearing Carillo, asked anxiously. The three had descended from ground level to a narrow concrete walkway that looked over the surging river on the left, and up at a smooth concrete wall on the right. It was bordered only by a thin guard-rail and was slippery from the moisture in the air.

"Zeke forced access to the bastion wall. He is now ahead of us, Private. I urge you to be on your guard," said Lapraik, keeping her voice to a whisper despite the audible rush of water cascading from the sluice gates.

"Oh, no more than we already are?" Carillo, still in deep pain from the round lodged in his backside, groaned. "Right helpless lot we are."

"Ssh, Tom," Bleak hissed. "We're lucky the colonel's with us."

Shuffling along in her wake, the two had strained to keep up with the colonel's brisk pace. It had struck Ral as strange that an intelligence officer could exert herself in such a manner. Though free of any burden it was still a tiresome march, and she did not appear in the least bit out of breath.

"Dark in here. Watch your feet and your head," the colonel whispered from within the tunnel's mouth.

"No shit. Do we have to go in there?" Carillo dragged at Ral a little reluctantly.

"Yeah, we do. Look, I promise when we find somewhere safe I'll take a look at your arse."

Hobbling into the pitch-dark tunnel, the two found they had lost sight of the colonel. "Ma-am?" Ral called out softly.

"Here." The colonel's reply came from a scant three feet away. "Wait one."

"I'm not having a man's hand up my arse," Carillo continued. "Property of Thomas Carillo that."

"Guard property, not yours. Signed yourself away on that dotted line: body, spirit and all."

"Aw, that's a rosy thought."

"It's fact. Anyway, it's not a colonoscopy. Nothing's going up your arse. I'll just pick the round out and, there, you'll have a nice scar for the girls to kiss."

" _Ahem_."

Both men fell silent at the colonel's behest. "Private Bleak, Private Carillo, if I can have your attention?"

"Ma-am?"

A tiny zipping sound was followed by a rustle of cotton. "I thought the wall looked shinier." The colonel switched on a tiny, palm-sized torch and shone the beam across the damp wall. "Aah. It reviles me to look upon it."

"What is it?" Ral brought Carillo closer to see a crude shape that had been daubed on the wall.

"Chaos."

Ral recognised the eight-pointed Chaos star which had been, quite appropriately, painted on in blood. Though in the weak torch light it was difficult to tell if it was the genuine article, or just a blood-coloured paint. Neither he nor the colonel felt like touching it.

"Be on your guard from here on," the colonel muttered, unslinging her M-35. Keeping the torch in her left hand, she pointed the yellow beam ahead, now fully alert for Zeke.

"Shush now, Tom," Ral breathed, wishing he had a weapon with which to defend his and Carillo's lives, now forced to swallow his rising anxiety. "Got to move along quietly now." _If our lot don't know about this breach in their line then what else don't they know?_

* * *

Freezing in her paper-thin medical garments, Keladi Lethidia stumbled as close to the burning building as she could bear, desperate as she was for warmth. The devastated city that had greeted her upon her ascension from underground saw a prickle of fear that exacerbated as the day wore on. Too frightened to stray from the hole the bomb had caused, Keladi had squatted in the corner of a bombed-out habitation block nearby, with her back to the only one of the four walls still standing. Putting weight upon her feet hurt her, even though she had painstakingly dug out every shard of glass before the climb. With her mind in turmoil she could not focus enough to properly seal the cuts on her bare feet, leaving them red and sticky with crystals. Having nought to occupy herself with but the going's-on of a planet at war, Keladi listened to the rumbling thunder and sporadic thumps going off in the distance. _Is this Cadia?_ She wondered. Her last memory was of the descent through the atmosphere in the life pod with Avele Swifteye. What had become of him?

Come nightfall, Keladi ventured from her hiding place and out into a city on fire. Thick pillars of smoke rose up into the purple-tinged blackness, their sources great, swirling infernos where human habitations had once stood. Sharp stones and warm dust tore at Keladi's feet as she wandered aimlessly along a once-zig-zagging street. In such a sorry state it was now made up of mounds of rubble of varying height and breadth. Underneath a window without glass, Keladi saw her first human body, covered in a soot-blackened blanket, and one of many arranged in a long line. More out of practical concerns than any real curiosity, Keladi lifted the corner of the blanket and peered underneath, letting the rough material drop quickly when the human's face was illuminated by the light from the flames. It was a sight no being should have to look upon. Keladi herself knew well enough what occurred to an Eldar body after death. The process for a human body however was ghastly.

 _Jain Zar absolve me._ Keladi stepped back, making the sign of Ulthwé, apologetic at her transgression. _Let their bodies be at rest._

Walking beside the line of blankets, Keladi held her foot up to the hobnailed soles of each human's boot. _Once more I ask your forgiveness_ , _Jain Zar_. Theft from the deceased brought a sick feeling rising inside her throat. _I hope your god will understand, human warriors, I do this out of necessity._

At the far end, Keladi found a human with small enough footwear. As a sentiment gesture, she made to find the human's identity tags, reaching up to lift the blanket from where it rested. The wool was already in her hands when Keladi realised there was nothing above the shoulders. Curiosity triumphed then, and she pulled the cover off, revealing a dry stump where the human's head should have been. Throwing the blanket back, Keladi sat with her hands held over her yammering heart. She would have normally lost any edible nutrients within her stomach over such a repugnant sight. But with an empty, growling belly devoid of foodstuff, all Keladi could do was double over, dry-heaving. The boots were almost brushing the tips of her nose, inviting her to take them. It took Keladi several tries to properly unlace the heavy leather articles, and pull them both free from the gaiters that were keeping the human's trouserlegs tucked in. Once with both boots beside her, Keladi looked at the grey socks that were now poking out from beneath the blanket. The footwear of course, but now she was contemplating touching the human's skin to retrieve the socks. Jain Zar, she longed for her skintight bodysuit, longed to be warm, longed to not be alone.

Over the blowing wind and the creak of the stiff leather, Keladi did not hear the human soldier. Clumsily she threaded the bootlaces through the round holes, drawing them as tightly as possible, only stopping when she glanced up at his approach. Freezing in place, guilty at the image she must have been giving, Keladi projected a sorrowful, pleading expression at the soldier. Kneeling next to the dead human's socks, the soldier, one of startling youth, slowly pulled the blanket down to cover the feet. At no point did he point at Keladi's face or ears and exclaim something in Gothic. _Why does he not recognise my race?_ _Does darkness make the illusion?_ Keladi had her face to a blaze, there was not a chance he had not seen her for what she was.

Further unsettling Keladi was the generous offer of a canteen. Confused at the charity, Keladi jerked the felt-covered water carrier from the human's outstretched hand and pulled the cork stopper free, wetting her parched throat. A question was directed at her, which of course she could not answer. Pointing at her throat, Keladi mimed that she was mute, hoping that would brush off the human's question. Apparently satisfied with the answer, or simply not caring, the youth nodded when Keladi gave his canteen back. Pointing up at his ear, he inquired whether Keladi was deaf or not. _Yes_ , Keladi nodded, pointing at her own ear.

 _Look here,_ the human reached inside his collar and produced the pair of metal tags he wore around his neck. Razek was his second name. His thumb covered his forename. Waiting for Keladi to read the name, Razek pointed at the first three letters. Raz.

 _Raz?_ Keladi, bemused, fell back on tying – or trying to tie – her laces. Seeing her fumbling, Raz made a silent offer of assistance, bending down and forming neat knots on both boots with practised swiftness. _Why the willing aid? Can he not see I am Eldar?_ Confused,Keladi flexed her bare feet inside the hard leather, feeling her toes brush the inside of the toecaps. Even more unusual was the greatcoat Raz offered her even though he had been wearing it underneath his webbing. Nursing her rising nerves at the overt kindness from the stranger, Keladi pulled her arms through the thick sleeves and buttoned the greatcoat up over her shirt, unused to the weight and uncomfortable itchiness.

 _Come on._ Raz beckoned, keeping an open face. However much Keladi could not understand the other's dialect, the inviting tone and friendly manner, all given without force or any falseness, calmed her. _Follow me or stay_. Giving Keladi the choice, Raz went back the way he had come, not looking to see if Keladi was following.

 _Is he alone?_ Cautious of others, Keladi followed Raz underneath a collapsed floor which had fallen at an angle, leaving a rough triangular shape to head through. The human's passage was unhindered by the low ceiling. Keladi had no such fortune and was forced to stoop. Her height was a dead giveaway for she was sure that there were not many human females over six feet in height.

 _Jain Zar protect me,_ Keladi prayed, realising with horror that Raz was leading her over to a gang of five of his comrades who were sitting in the middle of the street. At Raz's sighting, someone called out a greeting. When Keladi was spotted all five of the humans got up, two even unslinging weapons, unsure of who she was. Before any questions could be issued, Raz stepped in to explain. Not wanting to meet any of the humans' eyes, Keladi stared at a spot on the ground, hoping Raz would do her talking for her. Not one of the humans bore rank insignia on their drab uniforms, suggesting none were officers. Indeed, there seemed to be a slight air of disorganisation about the six soldiers, with nobody really being in command.

 _Are we within friendly territory? Behind enemy lines? Why linger out in the street?_ Keladi wondered after the discussion went on for longer than she had anticipated. Such was the extent of the destruction, lanes, arrow-straight where the paths were normally zig-zagging, had been blasted directly through structures. Because of the darkness the humans could not see this. Keladi could.

 _Why do we tarry here? There are enemies nearby surely._ Keladi went over and tugged at Raz's arm. This did not go down well with one of Raz's friends who unfolded a blade bayonet from the underside of his carbine's barrel and pointed it in Keladi's direction.

Silence followed. It was Keladi who first felt the change in air pressure at the passing of the bullet. But it had not come from the carbine, rather far off, delaying the sharp crack that the rifle gave. Whirling around, Keladi, Raz, and the five other humans fled pell-mell along the street, greatcoats and halves of loose web-belts flapping. The loud clatters of rifles dropped at the wayside were drowned out by the piercing whiz-bang of single rounds as they passed by. Faster than any of the humans by far, Keladi was nonetheless handicapped by the heavy boots and her feet flapping about inside them. Sharp thuds came from bodies falling beside her. Soft grunts were given off by the humans as they fell like ninepins on their faces to lie still in the dirt. Gasps from Raz behind Keladi as the sudden exertion sapped his energy. Still the unseen enemy fired. Throwing herself up at a wall at the end of the street, Keladi climbed upwards, throwing a leg over the parapet. A blurred object sailed over past her; Raz's carbine. Straddling the wall, Keladi lay down on the narrow surface and stuck her arm out to help Raz up. Then the sporadic rifle shots were replaced by a slow stutter of an automatic weapon, a rolling, punctuating thunderclap that kicked up showers of stone and dirt as it marched down the street, stitching a pattern up Raz's back as his fingertips brushed Keladi's. Falling onto his back, Raz was raked repeatedly by bursts of the automatic, even after he stopped moving.

Panicking now, Keladi dropped down on the other side of the wall, hearing only silence now the guns had ceased their murderous barrage. Casting about, Keladi spotted Raz's carbine lying on the flagstones. Grabbing the weapon in one hand, Keladi dragged it over, its affixed blade bayonet dragging on the stones before she could get an awkward hold on it. Crouching in place, Keladi was bowled over onto her front when the wall burst behind her. Fragments of hot masonry peppered her back, slicing through the wool of her greatcoat. Sobbing on her knees, Keladi dragged herself forwards on one hand as rifle and automatic alike chewed up the wall. Gripping the carbine, she grasped the stiff bolt and jerked it back. A round flew from the chamber, tinkling on the hard floor and spinning away. Shunting the carbine's bolt forwards again Keladi fired blind behind her, squeezing her eyes shut, not looking where she was shooting. Unable to tell if returning fire had done any good, Keladi struggled to her feet, managing only one more shot before the carbine either jammed or ran empty. Flinging the weapon away, she ran as loud ricochets spattered off the stone, slicing into shredded foundations and rent beams piled around her.

A second smooth-faced wall reared up in front of her, blocking her flight. Too high for her to scale unassisted, Keladi pressed her back against the smooth stone and hugged her knees together. Human shouting was coming from the street she had fled from. They were still shooting at the space she had just vacated.

 _Jain Zar, not like this, I beseech you._ Keladi buried her face behind her knees, her feet drumming on the ground in terror.

"Take my hand." A voice said.

Turning white in fright, Keladi craned her neck to see a human female extending an arm to her from the top of the wall.

"Hurry!"

With no other choice, Keladi jumped, grasping the human's hand, letting her be pulled up the wall. Reaching the parapet, Keladi was taken into the human's arms and gently lowered. Shock gripped her when she saw the human's feet did not touch the ground. _What are you?_ Keladi shrunk away, certain the strange human, clad in an alien cape and metallic bodysuit, had nefarious intentions for her.

"Take this." Within the human female's clawed gauntlet, a cord holding a tiny stone dangled.

 _Jain Zar!_ Astonished, Keladi reached for the spirit stone, grasping the artefact containing her soul.

"Fly." The strange human pointed over Keladi's shoulder, showing her the way to go.

Rubbing her throat, Keladi followed the direction with her eyes. "How did you come by this?"

Where the being had been, there was now nought but thin air.

* * *

 **The Citadel, Houdt District, 05:10**

"How long now, Scion?" Osvat Radu Zeleska asked, stifling a yawn. In the early hours of the morning the security wing of the Inquisitorial complex, located in the upper levels of Kraf's citadel, was cold. As a rule with all Cadian institutions, the heating went off at 2200 and came back on at 0600. Today was no exception.

"Seven hours, forty minutes, and fifty-seven seconds, My Lord," the Scion rattled off the timing in a monotone. Such was his conditioning he remained quietly observant at all times without breaking concentration.

 _That long without a single twitch. Remarkable,_ Zeleska thought, leaning down to see the console's largest screen, and the room it displayed. The stickie woman was sat at a table that contained a table and two chairs, all bolted to the floor. Between her manacled hands was a solid iron bar. _I think I've waited long enough,_ Zeleska smiled. "Turn off all surveillance equipment. No cameras, no bugs, no servo-skulls."

"Yes, My Lord."

"And remove yourself from this suite."

"Yes, My Lord."

Obedient men. Men of few words. Men suited for Zeleska's service. How he would enjoy seeing how this stickie ticked.

Displaying neither fear, anger, depression, nor any emotion for that matter, Izuru sat, still as a corpse and staring straight ahead, a stern look upon her features. Dominating her fraught senses, Izuru had shunted the collective pain from the Siphani's assault away, further blocking out the agonising thump of rifle butts on her body, instead concentrating upon the faces of her comrades-in-arms. Singling out James', Aimo's, Peter's, and Woulter's faces, Izuru focused her mind upon them, praying intently for their safety. A powerful swell of affection had arisen when, under threat of death from the Siphani officer, James had thrown himself into the line of fire for her. As gallant as the action was, Izuru very nearly bit her tongue off in frustration when James had fired upon the officer. _You young fool_ , she thought. Had he not said before that he would not help her if she was ousted as a stickie? _A noble, selfless deed, but it was foolish._ Now this strange new development led to the question: what had James not told her?

With time her only companion, Izuru had withdrawn within herself. Those watching her from behind screens would find no satisfaction in seeing her in distress. Any out-of-the-ordinary blink, any shuffle, any nervous tic shown would be seen as a weakness, and one her captors would use against her. _Show nothing but contempt for these human scum. Accept nothing from their hand, however inviting it may appear. As an officer of rangers it is my duty to escape, or otherwise cause as much mischief to their operation as is possible._

The opportunity to cause mischief, or otherwise be as much of a nuisance as was within her abilities, arose when the reinforced steel door hissed upwards, admitting the same human who had 'saved' her from the firing squad into the room. Refusing to acknowledge or even look his way, Izuru nonetheless immediately broadened her senses and took in the man's appearance. Black leather boots with steel toecaps that clacked loudly on the stone. A grey, sleeveless jerkin with gold trim around the hem and a chain with a red letter I at his throat. Around his shoulders sat a soft, brown leather holster, with facilities for a sidearm and a knife. Both of those were empty. Studying the man's face when he sat down on the other chair, Izuru took note of his prominent jawline, cheekbones, and wide forehead. He possessed similar, boyish features to James, and so damnably similar they were that Izuru's guard dropped, if only for a moment. Those blue eyes, pale, like a river, made her feel uncomfortable. They were James's eyes, but without the warmth and compassion for his friends. _Who are you?_

Gently placing a tablet upon the table between them, the boyish-faced human said, "you looked different over the comm. You were less scarred back on Nemesis Tessera too."

 _Him!_ Izuru's mind flashed back to Nemtess and the party of abductors she had torn to shreds to protect Keladi. The ghostly figure of the human she had seen over the comm had intrigued her. Now, face to face, she retained her guard, preferring to let the stranger explain himself to her.

With an easy smile, the human leant forwards and swiped the tablet back. "Already I see I need not go over your record. You are no doubt familiar with your criminal past, Izuru Numerial." When Izuru did not reply, he continued. "Osvat Radu Zeleska. Most esteemed servant to His Imperial Majesty. Acolyte to Lord Inquisitor Torquemada Coteaz. Member of the Ordo Hereticus."

 _Impressive. Do you always begin conversations with your list of titles; arrogant beast?_ Izuru never turned a hair, choosing to raise her shackled hands, appearing bored.

"Not just yet, my dear." Zeleska returned the tablet to his hands and made some changes. "I have here your parole," he said, resting the tablet upon the tabletop and turning it in Izuru's direction.

Skim-reading the green lettering, Izuru glanced up at Zeleska, fixing him with a mildly-condescending expression before sitting back in her chair. _And what of it?_

"Aha." He smiled, a not-so-convincing chuckle following on from that. "This is not an interrogation. Believe me, my dear, I am not looking for any information from you."

 _Liar, there is always something you seek._ Such a handsome face, with a charm accompanying it would have no doubt swayed many an impressionable human female both into bed and then underneath Zeleska's thumb. Sneering at the attempts to sway her with gentle prodding and charm, Izuru gripped the metal bar in her hands, stared at Zeleska, and began to pull. Straining at first, unable to keep it from appearing on her face, Izuru's jaw tensed as she worked both ends of the bar upwards, gradually forming a perfect U-shape with the metal. Showing the result of her efforts to Zeleska, Izuru let the deformed manacles slap loudly on the table. _I can break you as easily as I have broken this._

Leaning back in his seat, Zeleska's smile vanished, replaced with what could only be described as acute arousal. Glancing at the tablet, Zeleska threw it over his shoulder. The thing collided with the grey-green wall with a crash of shattering glass.

"Already I can see that you are a remarkable woman," Zeleska said, now serious. "I drop all pretences. I have your young friend, the redhead, in my company. She is well cared for, I assure you."

That Zeleska might use Keladi as leverage had already occurred to Izuru. Not for one second did she buy Zeleska's ploy that Keladi was in his clutches. If there was no body then there was no proof.

"Already I can see that you are a thoroughly unremarkable human," Izuru said softly. "What you cannot win through charm or money, you take through blackmail or force."

Likewise refusing to turn a hair, Zeleska said, "perhaps some refreshment will sweeten that tongue of yours? I have physicians that will tend to your injuries. A bed for you to rest in. Will you at least accept my hospitality? Let us do away with those shackles. I do not like to see a person bound."

"As charitable as you seem, I do not believe for one second that you harbour any compassionate thoughts for my welfare, Inquisitor. We are enemies. And as an officer, I cannot accept anything you offer."

"But what about the boy? He was very eager to rat you out so as to avoid losing the flesh from his back. Did you enjoy his company despite being enemies?"

"I have kept the company of many different humans on my travels. All had their part to play. And I can say that all performed admirably in their own particular manner. The boy was most useful in assisting me. He was a harmless catch, easily swayed by looks and simple compassion."

"A harmless youth, I agree. Still, I'm tired of sitting around in this dingy closet. Let us adjourn." Clapping his hands together, Zeleska got to his feet and showed Izuru to the door. "I uh, seem to have misplaced the keys for those shackles."

 _Of course you have,_ Izuru thought, keeping her face impassive. Skilful as she was at deception, she had no idea whether the Inquisitor had bought her story. He did genuinely seem to believe that James was harmless though, which could work in her favour. Arrogant, self-serving, but clever to boot, were Izuru's initial thoughts on Zeleska. On her feet now, she could see that Zeleska matched her height exactly and could look her squarely in the eye. _A combatant? Which hand do you favour? How proficient are you in martial arts?_ Questions circulated Izuru's brain. Now that the Inquisitor had made the mistake of letting her out under escort, she could plot her escape. It was not to say that it would be a walkover. The human was evidently intelligent enough to leave himself without a weapon so as to safeguard himself from a possible assault and being disarmed in a struggle. A cautious, watchful manner would need to be observed.

At Izuru's shoulder all the way, the Inquisitor directed her up from a series of corridors lined with damp, and up a narrow flight of stairs that spiralled tightly.

"Please, after you." Zeleska smiled at Izuru, indicating she was to pass through a door he had opened for her at the top of the stairs. "Please."

Where the grungy chambers below had smelt distinctly uninviting, the floor above was clean, the walls decorated with marble columns and pieces of art. A red carpet, soft and spongy, pressed upwards in response to Izuru's footfalls. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, bearing many brackets of light that cast a warm glow. The smell of cooked food was in the air.

"It would please me immensely if you would join me for breakfast," Zeleska said, guiding Izuru over to a set of double doors, one of three pairs that led to other rooms unknown. "I make a habit of rising early. Actually, before we eat, would you like to change?"

Remaining silent, Izuru fixed the Inquisitor with a baleful stare that she hoped would convene her message clearer than any words.

"A change of clothes? There is a refresher unit you can make use of." Zeleska misunderstood, believing it to be confusion on her behalf.

"Inquisitor." Izuru raised her bent shackles. "How am I am to change when I am compounded by broken shackles?"

Flashing her with a charming smile again, Zeleska dug into the pocket of his finely-cut breeches and showed Izuru a small key. "Excuse me. I seem to have located the key." Never taking his eyes off her, Zeleska unlocked the shackles. "There. In the room to your right is the refresher and a change of attire. Once you have finished, I pray you enter the room behind me. I will be waiting."

 _With an armed squad, no doubt_. Izuru glanced over Zeleska's right shoulder at the double doors. The three were identical, and there was no way of telling what the layout of the rooms were beyond. It did put her at quite a disadvantage. But her hands were free.

"Take as long as you need," Zeleska said. "There is no rush."

 _No, none whatsoever,_ Izuru thought. The message she was reading was plain. The Inquisitor sought a bed-warmer of some degree. But a xenos? How could he have such exotic tastes? And how were they tolerated by his superiors? That too was transparent. As an Inquisitor he could do as he pleased. After all was the Inquisition not responsible for all internal security affairs of the Imperium of Man? The mere thought of the sick and twisted desires the human had for Izuru very nearly turned her right around with the intention of seeking him out to throttle him with her bare hands. _Despicable, depraved, and thoroughly unremarkable,_ Izuru sneered with contempt. But something else niggled at her. The words thoroughly unremarkable had been how she described James. That could not be right for she was inexplicably comparing him to the Inquisitor. _Forgive me for making such a connection. You are not like him. You are a better human by far. I am proud to have fought by your side, doing something that really mattered._

 _This farce must end, and end soon._ Izuru looked across the opened chests and closets containing articles of clothing. Some garments were arranged fancifully upon tables. Izuru recognised stays, some with sleeves and some without. Jumps, lace-up mostly were hanging up in heavy amounts. A corset Izuru dismissed instantly. _Does he seek a mistress?_ She was reviled at the thought, passing over the impractical and ugly affects. _What are these?_ Izuru stared down at a pair of round cups with straps attached. Three of them were laid out on the tabletop, all in different colours and different sizes. _Breast support?_

Refusing point blank to submit herself to Zeleska by accepting the clothes, Izuru dug into the back of one of the wooden drawers, finding a pair of black combat fatigues to replace her khaki t-shirt and Lizard Pattern trousers. _Warrior I am, Inquisitor. Whore I am not._ Seeing various tiny tubes of paint, intended for decorating the face, sitting upon the top of the drawers in front of a mirror, Izuru dashed them all on the floor. Petty as it was, she felt the need to make a statement. Spitting into the Inquisition's face was the best way to do it.

 _I will not give you the satisfaction._ Izuru cast her eyes about for any obvious surveillance before heading to the only other door at the end of the room. Inside was a spacious refresher unit, a shower, bath, human latrine, a sink, and a mirror. _How can men like this live in such luxury whilst so many struggle to find even basic amenities?_ Izuru wondered. The strange class system that humans abided by was alien to her. On Ulthwé and Alaitoc every family had access to such facilities, and never wanted for anything.

Placing the fatigues at her feet, Izuru reached up and hauled a dormant servo-skull down from where it was resting upon a shelf, leaving it outside so nobody could spy on her. _If he intends to use that to peep at me, I will break his back._ Unsatisfied, Izuru ransacked the room with a furious intensity, going over everything she deemed suspicious until, satisfied, she disrobed and stood underneath the hot water and began to scrub the dirt, sweat, and dried blood away. _Any being that enters I will kill with my bare hands_ , Izuru vowed, keeping a close eye upon the door. Undisturbed, Izuru hastily dried off and leant over the sink to look at herself in the mirror. Where the muck had vanished, bruises had arisen upon her forehead and cheeks. New scrapes and gashes had appeared, criss-crossing all over her face. The burn mark upon her right cheek stung. She could feel more bruises in her sides, on her arms and legs. Gently pressing her rib-cage, Izuru winced. Where she had shielded James from the grenades underneath the bridge, the concussion may have cracked some ribs. Despite their higher resilience to human rib-cages, it still hurt terribly.

 _No fear, no hesitation,_ Izuru thought, drawing her thickening hair into a severe bun befitting a warrior, and donning the fatigues. No weapons presented themselves at this stage. Somebody had made sure there was nothing she could use well beforehand.

"You are refreshed?" the Inquisitor asked, raising a glass in greeting when Izuru thrust open both doors and strode into a dining room. Clasping her hands behind her back casually, Izuru turned her attention to the monstrous, rectangular table of food the Inquisitor was sitting at the end of. Speechless at the sheer range of foods, not just the quantity she was seeing, Izuru's expression darkened. "You eat like a god, whilst men out in the field go on rations I would not feed a hound."

"Such is the way of humanity. Those men fighting that pointless little war out there are insignificant to the Imperium." Zeleska rose, taking his glass over to a mantelpiece above an unlit fireplace. "I have Sacra, Amasec, Ploin Juice, Orange Juice too. That last one was a strain to locate, I can tell you." Zeleska grinned from ear to ear. "Name your beverage."

To accept was to submit. "Show me Keladi," Izuru said, deciding to play along.

"Over on the table: jellied heffen tongue, roast starfin cheek, some real beef too. I am assured by my chef that the product is indeed genuine, despite the bovine species being officially recorded as extinct."

"Show me Keladi, and I will consider your request," Izuru said, adding, in a coquettish tone. "I apologise for just now, My Lord. I was out of line."

"Accepted without reserve." Zeleska, appearing surprised at Izuru's change of heart, offered her a drink when she took an empty glass from the mantelpiece. "Now allow me to be the one to apologise for the treatment. We are a cautious organisation, especially when it comes to dealing with xenos."

"But surely you deal with heretics, not xenos. You are Ordo Hereticus, not Ordo Xenos." Izuru took a sip, it taking all of her willpower not to spew the foul, bitter liquid back up.

"That is an interesting and complicated story. Sadly, I am unable to speak about it," Zeleska said, his smile fading. "Now, you are wondering what I seek from you. What I had intended to do was explain it after your parole signing. I want you to join my retinue. As an Inquisitor I can give you protection from the usual petty prejudice that you will find in abundance from the common citizen. There are other benefits too, which I you will learn more about after you have signed your parole."

"Show me Keladi first, and I will sign. You have my word." Izuru promptly drained her glass and set it back on the mantelpiece. _Disgusting_.

"Are you not hungry?"

"I have a hunger to see my kin safe," Izuru replied stonily. "Keladi. Parole."

Downing his own glass, the Inquisitor conceded. "Very well, let it be so. Follow me."

* * *

Departing the dining room, the Zeleska followed Izuru through a narrow door that had appeared from a panel in the wall – it had been completely invisible before – and along a corridor to another set of stairs leading upwards. "It was most fortunate an associate of mine discovered your friend's location and led me to her in time," Zeleska said, putting a friendly hand upon Izuru's shoulder, guiding her ahead of him up the stairs. "You know, I rescued her from the dastardly clutches of the Adeptus Mechanicus not two days ago. Emperor only knows what would have happened had she fallen prey to their foul machinations."

"We must be grateful that your colleagues were on hand to inform you of her whereabouts. Such monstrous unions of flesh and steel deserve only the executioner, Inquisitor."

"Please. I would have you know me as Osvat."

"Is that all you would have?"

"We will see." Zeleska smiled. The lies – half-lies to be frank – had come easily, flowing off his tongue with an oily smoothness. Once the ruse was up, and the Eldar in his grasp, he would be examining her assets in thorough, something he was looking forwards to immensely.

"Pardon me. I am curious about your lineage. Though I have not encountered many of your race on my travels, I am certain that I would recognise one if in a crowd…"

"I am mixed-race," Izuru put bluntly.

 _Mixed-race?_ That Zeleska did not know, and he prided himself on how deep he usually researched his quarry. Was such a thing possible? "Already you have exceeded my expectations, Izuru. I would be honoured to have you by my side. You will accept my offer, won't you?"

"That remains to be seen."

With the constant indecision and back and forth, Zeleska began to grow impatient. _Will she, or won't she?_

Two floors above Zeleska's quarters was an observation suite. It was a room with a sloping ceiling and a floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows at the west end, overlooking the tarmac that was reserved for VIP usage. Underfoot there were no carpets, no finery, nothing to suggest the luxury scarcely two floors below, only a chair, and a single occupant. Signalling the four masked Scions, two guarding each door, to wait outside, Zeleska led Izuru in.

"There, as promised." Zeleska smiled warmly, content with the lie.

"I require a moment." Izuru said, her face near-cracking with relief. "Just a moment."

"I'm afraid that will not be possible. I would need you to sign your parole first."

"Very well."

"Would you please – also – converse in Gothic. Just for now."

"Of course. Keladi is fluent. She will understand regardless."

"Thank you."

Keeping close, but not to a disrespectful extent, Zeleska clasped his hands behind his back and waited for the reveal, tapping the device upon his wrist that would summon the Scions into the room.

"Hello, young one. I have found you," Izuru whispered, leaning down to rest an affectionate hand upon Keladi's shoulder.

"Take you time," said Zeleska. He had all the time in the world. Her times was fast running short.

"Did he hurt you?"

"I swear upon—" Zeleska began, instinctively bringing up his hands to protect his face when Izuru spun and rammed the base of her palm into his nose. Slower than the Eldar, Zeleska's face screwed up with the impact. His damaged nose spurted blood from both nostrils. Receiving a follow-up kick underneath his left armpit, Zeleska fell sideways.

"Liar!" Izuru spat vehemently, hauling 'Keladi' up from the chair, and lifting her off her feet.

Stabbing the alarm on his wrist, Zeleska kept silent. His silence ended in an anguish-filled roar when Izuru bundled 'Keladi' backwards in the direction of the stained-glass window with the intention of using it as an escape route.

Kicking in the doors, the four Scions, reinforced by eight more, filed into the room, their vocal distorters crackling, hot-shot lasguns acquiring Izuru's figure.

"Don't shoot!" Zeleska shouted nasally, just before the window shattered, and Izuru jumped.

"My Lord." Argus Degrelle, coming in behind the Scions, leapt to his master's aid.

"Unhand me." Zeleska snarled. _Damn myself for being so trusting._

Enraged, Zeleska pushed past the poised Scions, stopping in front of the destroyed window and peering down at the landing pad four storeys below; the wind whipping his hair. The drop – damnably – was broken by a smooth, sloped section of the roof partway down, leading straight to the landing pad.

"Shall I land-lock the ships, My Lord?" Degrelle asked, passing Zeleska a handkerchief.

Clasping the handkerchief to his nose, Zeleska shook his head. Izuru would not be leaving the planet just yet. That red-haired bitch of hers was still out there. There was still time. "No, form a perimeter on the east bank of the river. Seal off the road and rail bridge too."

"Yes, My Lord."

"NOW!" Zeleska yelled. Damn himself to Chaos for letting this happen. "Argus, come here."

"My Lord?" Degrelle pivoted smoothly and bowed.

"Our man in Cannon Company?"

"Standing by, My Lord."

"Good." Zeleska licked his lips. "Good. Tell him to remain on standby. He may be receiving the mark again. If he does, have him in a constant state of readiness. He will act only on my command. Is that clear?"

"Yes, My Lord."

Standing tall before the shattered glass, the wind ruffling his hair, blood running over his lips, Zeleska said, "when the time comes, I will finish this myself."

* * *

 **Aptus District, 05:58**

As desertions went, ours could not have gone smoother. Having retreated from the entrance hall and broken into various rooms in the hab-block opposite the CCS, Cannon and the Siphanis had shored up for the night, with only one man on stag in the entrance hall. It was Gale. Slipping by him was out of the question, so we told him the truth – or at least partly. Payback was our reason for going absent without leave, something Gale volunteered himself and his two cooks without hesitation.

"Why'd we want you along? You're a cook." Aimo snorted.

"Survived this long, haven't we?" Gale grinned. "Besides, Zeke wasted one of our own."

"Thought you didn't even like each other."

"Like? No. Weld was one of mine though. And I didn't give permission for him to die, or for Zeke to waste him."

"Well, go get your lads then." Aimo shrugged. "Fine by you, mate?" he asked me.

"Fine."

With me, Aimo, and the three cooks came the Highlanders, Cyrano, and Josef Herle. It did not take much persuasion, each of us sick of constantly being on the back foot and in retreat. The opportunity for some payback was accepted by the Highlanders especially, prompting Aimo to quickly shush them for fear of giving the game away to Corta. Our next problem came, not from lack of weaponry, rather ammunition, having expended most of it during the Battle of Bastion 33, forcing us to scrounge anything we could from the equipment taken from the wounded in the CCS; any pilfering of ammunition from the company would have been noticed and quickly questioned, leading to Corta's interference.

It was a few minutes to six in the morning, just before dawn, when we departed the CCS with as much discretion as ten armed men could. Leading from the front, with a sizeable dispersion between me and the main body, I had a Lecta held from the hip, ready to deliver a large volume of automatic fire in the direction of possible ambushes, allowing the rest of us to disengage and withdraw. My Castra was slung over my back, gently knocking against the battered, two-piece Cadian body armour I now wore over my – Izuru's – LP jacket and officer's web gear. Behind, leading the main body, Aimo carried the KP-70 slung across his chest, the bipod extended for a quick set-up. The only other stubber with ammunition was the single Rekyl borne by the Highlanders, who brought up the rear. Between us all we packed a strong percentage of automatic fire that could be very quickly brought to bear upon a target. But just how long we could keep it up was an altogether different matter. Ammunition concern aside, I believed, or thought I believed, that the sounds of combat were getting louder, coming further and further south in our direction. That couldn't be right. The Clankers now occupied the bastion walls. Zeke should still be outside the city. Glancing up at the skeletons of buildings rising seven, eight, or nine storeys around us, I listened, not altogether unworried that Zeke may have somehow bypassed the city's defences. That thought made the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stick up. We were in no state to have another scrap with Nathaniel, especially with so many wounded nearby.

Unbeknownst to me, the cellars, underground tunnels, and bunkers – most habs underground – were heaving with personnel, both civilian and military. Those hundreds – thousands – that had fled from their own worlds to Cadia then across the continent to Kasr Kraf were resorting to hiding underground to avoid the bombing that had claimed most of everything outside the void shield. Cresting a small bank, I brought my Lecta to bear when a figure staggered up out of a cellar, a bottle in his hand. Aware I had stopped, Aimo raised a clenched fist, halting the others. Turning, I motioned the team to stay put and I would investigate.

"What you doing out here?" I asked in an undertone when I reached the slouching man. His uniform was not double-breasted Cadian khaki, or olive grey, more a mustard colour. It did not disguise the stains down the front.

"Livin' it up, mate," the man replied in a slurred voice, the contents of his bottle sloshing around.

Grabbing the man's collar, I sniffed the air around him and shoved him away. "You fuckin' drunk arse."

Clattering down the steps into the cellar, I found the place packed with soldiers and civilians. Playing a torch beam around, just how jam-packed the cellar was became apparent. A strong scent of alcohol clung to the air. Back on ground level I waved the others forwards. "Okay, we got grunts and civvies packed into cellars. They're drinking anything they can find 'cause there's no water."

"They won't be any use if they're pissed or hungover," said Aimo.

"Anyone not drunk?" Cyrano asked.

"I dunno what the situation is here. There could be hundreds of cellars they've occupied."

"Well, shouldn't we see if anyone's sober?" Gale said, "we could use them back at the CCS."

Seeing it his way, I called down into the cellar, "anyone sober down there?"

Nothing coherent came from below. "Move on then."

Every single dwelling along the street was occupied. Any troops that hadn't drunken themselves into a stupor were ballbagged – too tired to come out – and absolutely refused to budge. "Dunno why you're bothering, chum," an exhausted private bearing the yellow and blue flash of the Imperial Logistics Corps on his shoulder groaned. "We've already been down to the evac zones. There's queues miles long at the airbase. If we're not standing there waiting, we're getting shot up by Zeke planes 'cause ours have all buggered off."

"We're not going to the evac zones," I replied angrily, "I need blokes with balls and bullets to come and defend a casualty station. There are 300 wounded men there, and Zeke's inside the city walls, in case you 'aven't heard. He's gonna be rolling down this street soon. And you know what he's gonna do when he gets here? He's gonna laugh. Laugh at you."

"Bloody drunks," Olen Azar muttered. "Should shoot the lotta you."

"Stand down, Azar," said Gale.

"Okay, we'll split up into groups of three. Spread out and find somebody sober, with ammo too. "Highlanders with me. Aimo, take Cyrano, and Scribe. Gale, you and your cooks. Let's get it done."

"Isn't he acting sarn't?" Azar pointed at Aimo. "Why you ordering us about, _Private?_ "

"I'm with you," Aimo said to me.

"Yeah, we're with you," Gale added earnestly. "Got your head screwed on tight."

Between our three groups combing cellars, we drew together a scratch force of about forty able-bodied and sober men. Only half of them had any ammunition for their weapons which were a mixture of M-36s and .338s. Less than half of those with ammo still had their flak vests and ceramite covers, or any gear for that matter; so many of it having been discarded somewhere back along the road.

"Can I have your attention?" I asked, once the forty, including us, were gathered outside in the street. "Can you hear that?"

"Speak up, sir!" someone shouted.

 _Sir?_ That caught me off-guard. Did they really believe I was an officer? Continuing despite my discomfort at having to address a large body of men, I raised a finger, listening to the gunfire in the streets further to the north. "That's Zeke fighting in the streets. He's banged through the bastion wall somewhere. So we – right here – are no longer as secure as we thought we were. I want all of you to come with us back to the CCS a few blocks south of here and dig in, set up firing positions, and be ready for Zeke. You're still soldiers, lads, all of you, no matter how far down the shitter you think we are. There are 300 wounded men down at that CCS. Maybe some of your pals are there even." A few murmured acknowledgements to that. "Now I don't know you, and you don't know me. But I'm asking, grunt-to-grunt, to willingly come down and do something right instead of wasting your sorry lives away in those holes in the ground you climbed from." Quiet, sullen faces stared back at me. A few were listening, still standing up straight, at least trying to look like soldiers. "Now I'll come clean before any of you get the wrong idea. I'm not an officer. I'm not a sarn't, not a fullscrew, not even a lance jack. I'm just a grunt like most of you. Now I know officers can be full-on cunts, but – difference is – I'm not ordering you to come down with us. I'm asking you as a brother soldier to please give one last push against Zeke. For all our sakes. This ain't for glory, or gongs, it's just survival. I'm not asking you – any of you – to be heroes. Just do something – do a job properly so we survive and come back another day and show Zeke and Nathaniel that we – us lot – are proper fucking nails that deserve respect."

Silence followed. Bitterly a few men shook their heads and fell out. Around a quarter of the crowd departed, leaving roughly thirty able-bodies. "Okay, move your fucking arses, we got stuff to do!" Aimo shouted, corralling the now platoon-strength unit into motion.

"Proper inspiring stuff that," Joe Herle, near the fore-front, had been scribbling. He grinned up at me as I stepped down.

"Don't put that in the paper, mate," I said, rubbing my sore eyes.

"It'd make a good bit of inspirational writing though."

"I don't want my name written down in some column."

"Um, how about I give the speaker as anonymous?"

"Fine, fine, just some random bloke. Make him a sarn't. He deserves it more than me."

"I don't know. That sounded fairly heroic."

"That weren't me up there. People giving speeches like that don't exist really. It's just a sham. I didn't know what I was saying; where it came from. Just stupid…"

"Well it wasn't half bad," said Herle, turning away to follow the others.

"…Stupid," I murmured, rubbing the itchy stubble on my chin. Glancing around, I caught sight of a patch of red, bold red. Thinking it blood for a minute, I dismissed it, not soon after realising it was hair when it billowed after a gust of wind caught it.

"Keladi?" It couldn't be. She had to be dead. I told myself, and Izuru, with firm conviction, that Keladi was certain to be dead. "Keladi?" The hair moved back from a hole blasted in the face of a half-buried hab-block, out of sight. "Oi, Keladi!"

Bending low to step through the hole, I saw a girl wearing a massive greatcoat and black leather marching boots sitting in the corner where two walls met. "That you, Keladi?" I asked, moving closer cautiously. She had the hair: thick, red, and bright. If only her face was the same, which it wasn't. "Keladi Lethidia?" I slung my Lecta on my shoulder and tipped the brim of my cover back. "Keladi Lethidia?" The being that raised her head to look at me had the face, and ears, of a human. Bizarrely she recognised the name I had said. "You are Keladi Lethidia, aren't you?"

Keladi, looking pale and terribly thin, raised her altered face, a brief flash of recognition crossing her features. She remembered me from the Grace.

"What have they done to you?" I stepped closer, keeping my hands raised. "They've changed you. Have you seen it?" Of course, she hadn't. The poor girl must have been wandering around Kraf for days, petrified that somebody would recognise her as a stickie but ignorant of the surgical changes she had undergone. And the real kicker. She still could not speak Gothic, dropping a huge language barrier between us. _Blast it._ I needed Izuru.

"Number one," Keladi said in a little voice, somewhat botching the pronunciation. "Number one?"

"Number one." I offered her my hand, pulling her upright. "Don't you worry now. I'll keep you safe. Least until Izuru gets back."

"Izuru." Keladi's face lit up hearing her surrogate big sister's name spoken.

"I don't know." I shrugged, raising my arms in a dramatic gesture, hoping Keladi understood. "I don't know."

The mere mention of Izuru's name lifted Keladi's spirits. With energy drawn from God-knows where Keladi rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet, excitable now she had encountered someone she knew – or at least was not a total stranger. Like Izuru she was taller than me by quite a margin, allowing her to lean forwards and rub her cheek against mine before following on with the other. Some odd alien gesture of affection presumably.

"Yeah, alright, our stickie," I cut in, my face aflame. "Zeke's rolling through town here. Let's get back to the CCS, and I'll fix you up with a gat and clobber. You're fighting with us. You gotta dig out now."

Understanding, Keladi fell in obediently beside me. _Right, we've got you, lass_. _Now all we need is Izuru._ The rescue effort had fallen flat. It did seem a trifle selfish though, what with those defenceless wounded at the CCS in their hundreds. Tutting to myself, I realised the endeavour that lay ahead. Despite being a lowly OR, I accepted – had to accept now – that I had responsibilities that extended all the way up into the treble figures.


	38. Chapter 37

**The Citadel, 05:34**

The harsh crack Izuru had thought was her had come from the imposter she had flung before her and used to cushion her fall. Landing with a thump upon the sloping rooftop beneath the stained glass window, Izuru kept the body underneath her as she slid downwards to the second, longer drop. In freefall for all of half a second, Izuru took the time to ensure the body was planted underneath her once more before the loud crunch of breaking bones and sudden impact threw her off. Rolling hard upon her shoulder, Izuru was on her feet in a heartbeat and falling upon the body. Taking the head, Izuru sunk her fist at where the nose was, hearing a satisfying crack. Then, dragging the hood off, Izuru let the imposter's head drop back onto the surface of the landing pad. Opting to spare the inquisitor's man from her wrath – if only for a moment – Izuru coldly drew back her boot and stamped on the man's neck, ending him. Further spitting upon his corpse and coming forth with a ream of dire expletives, Izuru glanced up at the broken window, seeing the tall figure of the inquisitor silhouetted. _Save yourself for me, snake, for I will return with fire in my blood, and a blade in my hand._

Bright spotlights warmed Izuru's back as she crossed the wide, circular landing pad at a sprint. Unable to tell if any of the parked vessels were locked down, Izuru ignored the temptation to try to board, conscious of sirens in the distance beginning to wail, and the sharp glare of the lamps that were trained on her. Blocking out her body's angry protests to stop and take stock of the latest damage she had done to it, Izuru channelled everything into a cool, collected fury at the inquisitor and all humans in general. _Let the Great Serpent consume your souls_ _instead of mine_ , _beasts_.

Sliding down a ladder at the far edge of the pad, Izuru dropped out of sight of the searchlights, landing within a warren of piping, narrow crawlspaces, and vents that continually hissed. _West. Head west._ Izuru had caught a glimpse of the river over on her left, allowing her to acquire her bearings. As she scrambled underneath a pipeline, a hot blast of air engulfed her from above. Wind from an inquisition gunship, a Valkyrie, stalled her progress. Narrow, probing beams, emitting from the lowered ramp, worked up and down the area, passing over the pipes Izuru was hiding under. Lying still, Izuru waited for the gunship to complete its sweep before crawling ahead. _Kaela Mensha Khaine_ , Izuru said to herself, further swearing when the pipes turned sharply downwards, blocking her path and forcing her to squeeze around them. The purple bruises in her side given to her by the grenades dropped from the bridge complained incessantly, reminding her of the punishment her body had endured over the past week.

Cutting short her inner turmoil, Izuru's ears detected an odd noise she had never heard before. A deep shout that could not have come from any human mouth, sounding over and over. It was barking. _Wolves?_ Izuru shivered, more out of fear than any chilliness in the short blasts of wind that circulated the areas around the underside of the landing pad. _Dogs?_ The four-legged canines were unfamiliar to her. The growling beasts sparking a strange, unexplainable anxiety within her that only grew as the barking drew closer. From a grate only a few feet above Izuru's head, a pitter-patter of paws, and an excited sniffing was followed by a shout from the beast's handler. "There is someone down here."

At the human's exclamation there came running feet and the glare of torches. Already having passed the grate, Izuru heard further shouting when it became clear to her pursuers that they had discovered her whereabouts.

"Where does that passage come out?" a muffled voice barked.

"It drops down to the riverbank," came the reply.

 _The river!_ There was still a chance of escape if that route had not already been cut off. _Khaine deliver me from the barbarians,_ Izuru prayed over the hammering resonating from grates ahead.

"He's there!" someone hooted when Izuru crawled underneath the light of a torchbeam.

"I have a clear shot." Another cried, trying to force the muzzle of his weapon through the narrow bars.

"Do not shoot. Do not shoot. We must not deprive the inquisitor of his captive." An officer likely, shouted. "Non-lethal shots only. Bring the dogs over here."

"Grenade!" A pin was dropped as somebody readied a bomb to drop though the grate.

"Do as you were told!" the officer yelled, trying to curb his men's over-eagerness. "I require the dogs here now!"

Swearing, this time in Gothic, Izuru felt the walls closing in on her. The anxiety gave way to panic as the hunters drew in. Her aversion of enclosed spaces resurfaced.

"Artificer, here. Open these gates."

A buzz of a power tool further galvanised Izuru. With the enemy cutting their way through from the surface, it would not be long before the dogs would be let off their leashes and sent in after her. The thought of the panting maw filled with sharp teeth and slobber only served to drive her further on, determined – desperate – to be free. Keladi, James, Woulter, Peter, Aimo. What would happen if she was not there to protect them?

With the sounds of pursuit receding, Izuru gripped a pair of pipes overhead and used them to pull herself out into a tunnel that ran perpendicular to the passage she had just left. Set in the curving wall, at intervals, were gates, all of which were sealed and bearing vertical slits in the same manner as the grates in the passage behind. Putting her eye to the narrow opening, Izuru saw the orange glow and the shape of the buildings across the 200-metre-wide swell. _So close, yet unreachable_. The same shut and bolted gates along the tunnel stared back at her as she roved up and down, looking for a way out. _Come on_. Izuru pounded a fist upon the cold steel in frustration.

From outside, the moan of falling bombs drew Izuru to a gate. Far-off flashes were followed by the rumble of explosions, occurring out of sync with one another. The drone of bombers flying at high-altitude resided over the city, an unseen cloud of winged beasts bearing packages of death in their bosoms. Mesmerised, if only for a moment, at the strangely artistic extent of destruction, Izuru turned her eyes upwards when the bombs began thumping on the void shield which still held. _If only you broke now. I beg you, break now and drown this hateful place in fire. Answer me, Asuryan._

Leaning against the gate, Izuru waited for the bark of the beasts as they bore down on her. Continuing without relent, the bombing fuelled the burning city with an ungodly intensity. Such raw, crude power could not have possibly left anyone alive. Only within the deepest holes could beings survive. Izuru hoped Keladi had found shelter and was thinking of her.

A watery explosion just outside the gate followed a high-pitched whistling of a falling bomb. This was quickly repeated with more and more ordnance landing on Izuru's side of the river; in the water and overhead. _Just like that!_ Elation gripped her when the enemy bombers began delivering unhindered payloads on the citadel. The void shield had collapsed. Again, just like that. _Blessed Asuryan, it is a sign._ Izuru let out a tiny gasp of relief, slapping her palm upon the gate. _I am going to live._ Surely the pursuit would be called off due to the suddenly non-existent protection above the humans' heads. _Let them cower in their bunkers_ , Izuru thought contemptibly. _See how long they hold_.

Optimistic now that the bombs had driven her pursuers away, Izuru prowled around, searching for a way to open any one of the gates that barred her way. From further along the tunnel, lost in the blackness, a roar that was unlike any explosive rolled towards Izuru, revealing itself as a surging torrent of water. Gritting her teeth, Izuru scrabbled for purchase upon the unmarked surface of the hatch, feeling herself be carried backwards without a handhold to grasp. Horizontal shafts of light shone through the water, the narrow hatches in the gates letting it flow out into the river. So close to the way out, Izuru strove vainly to get a hand around the opening. Each time she failed and was carried further down. At last finding the wet metal, Izuru hauled herself against the current, blind with the water pummelling her face, and tried to force herself through the opening that could not possible have been wide enough for a human-sized body. It was not. Unable to open her mouth to let out a moan of discomfort, Izuru wriggled her shoulders through, groaning when her chest caught on the sharp rim of the hatch. Stoppered briefly, the water burst out from behind, sending her shooting down towards the river below. She broke the surface like a bomb, floating downwards in a brief period of unconsciousness. Coming around, Izuru inadvertently took a gulp of the disgusting water, spitting it back out as she swum towards the light. On reaching air, Izuru saw that both sides of the river were on fire, the east bank, and the citadel; having had their first bombs. Hoping the confusion would grant her the cover she needed to escape, Izuru struck out for the west bank, thoughts of revenge intermingling with worry for her friends.

* * *

 **12 Casualty Clearing Station, Aptus District, 06:39**

Simon Corta's outrage that fully one-third of his remaining men had taken off without his knowledge turned to alarm when Corporal Dranno, the highest-ranking NCO and now acting sergeant, had rushed into Corta's makeshift company command post and blurted that there were personnel with unknown intent approaching the CCS from the east. "Could be Garst returning with ammo? I mean, maybe he sent out some of the lads to find food or meds for the wounded?" Dranno guessed.

"Then why did he not tell me of his intentions first?" Corta, not expecting an answer from Dranno, put on his ceramite cover and hurried down to the entrance hall of the hab with the NCO in tow. "Where? From the east you say?"

"Yes, sir." Dranno pointed along the street. "There they are."

 _A bit bloody late telling me that_ , Corta thought, raising his glasses. "Cheeky bugger," he muttered. Larn was in the forefront with Garst, leading a party of roughly thirty men, two-thirds of whom were neither company men nor Siphanis. Their sighting drew curious onlookers. Wharton, still bearing his useless vox in the hope that it would be someday repaired, waved. The Tabors, Peter and Woulter, stumbled outside, the son supporting the father who had taken shrapnel in his left arm and left leg. Both man and boy's face lit up at the return of their brothers-in-arms. Corta, unimpressed, glared.

"Sergeant, get me a detail quickly." Corta intended to properly arrest Larn before the situation could get out of hand. Why else was he approaching at the head of an armed group? He wanted to take command and dispose of the last remaining obstacle: Corta.

"Morning, sir," Larn said, halting his men a short distance from Corta's. Alongside him was Aimo Garst, Cyrano Semirechye, Joe Herle, the Highlanders, and the cooks; all armed.

"Mutiny, is it?" Corta glanced disparagingly at the faces of whom he had once called soldiers.

"What?" Larn frowned.

"I let you off arrest – for now at least – until we are safely evacuated. Now what am I seeing before me? It looks awfully like a mutiny, Private. D'ambrosia you may have got the better of, but this ends now."

Larn began to speak but was cut off by Aimo. "Sorry, sir." Aimo raised a hand, stepping forwards into the gap between parties. "We've given you the wrong impression."

"The impression I'm getting is that your ex-sergeant would remove me from command because I ordered his xenos bitch to be subject to the firing squad." As the words cleared his mouth, a murmur of discontent circulated the men still under Corta's command, as did those with Larn and Garst.

"The xenos has been and gone. And we're not any worse 'cause of her, sir. If it weren't for her, we would have had it far rougher up on the perimeter. It was she that manned the autocannon. She that zipped Nathaniel enough so that we could waste him."

"Sir." It was Larn's turn to cut Aimo off. Slinging his Lecta, Larn said, glancing aside at the broad front of the muncip building as he did so, "this isn't a mutiny, sir. And I'm sorry for zipping D'ambrosia. Our policy rates all xenos as enemy, which I can understand. But it's not about xenos anymore." Raising a finger Larn added, "can you hear that? That's some of our lot in contact with Zeke in the streets north of here."

Corta had in fact heard the gunfire a lot earlier, troubling him enough that he wished to be away from the CCS and marching down to the evac points before Zeke could catch up, and preferably before sun-up. "And that is precisely why we are leaving, Private." Corta gestured to Dranno and a few of his men to go and arrest Larn. "Please hand your weapons over and come with me. I don't want any accidents to happen."

"Not happening, sir." Larn retreated with Aimo, both unslinging their weapons. "We're staying here."

"Staying here?" Corta aghast, looked first from Larn, to Aimo then to the others, baffled at the bold declaration. "You do realise that by staying here, you're condemning yourselves. After everything that has happened since Rakka. You are so close to safety, and you fling it aside like some cheap harlot."

"Sir, there are 300 wounded men in that house. By not staying here, we're condemning them to die. I'm staying, Aimo's staying. Everyone that's here with me is staying. We want payback for Rakka, sir, don't you?"

Swallowing, Corta replied, "alright. You can die in glory defending this mass grave, maybe salvage your reputation somewhat. Or live and face the consequences of your actions at the perimeter. Anyone that wants to live can accompany me to the evac points. I will be leaving right away."

With Corta came Len Wharton, Dranno, Arrigo, Colvin, Rhidian, the two Tabors, and a smattering of others; putting his number at roughly twenty. Corta's proposal for his people to remain with the Siphanis was flat-out rejected. The remains of the pioneer platoon would also not fight alongside Larn, with various members casting livid eyes frequently in his direction before they tramped off southwards. Not a man in the divided house that was Cannon Company spoke as they watched Corta's party depart on foot. Only Peter and Woulter Leurbach bid anyone farewell. In their case, Larn and the Highlanders, having become surprisingly close with the latter three.

"B-bye, James." Peter smiled. "I hope you pull through. I'm – I'm sorry about Izuru."

"Don't be sorry, lad." Larn shook the boy's hand, keeping his face blank. "You get your dad through this now. You see the smoke rising in the sky? You walk there, you get on a ship, you go home. Anyone tries to stop you, give 'em a bunch o' fives. You're a man now. A proper field grunt." To Woulter, Larn said, "worth a million credits that wound is."

"Hope it takes both me and Peter out of the fight." Woulter smiled weakly. "There's no way I'm letting him go off on his own with you."

"Nah, you're making the right decision here, old man." Larn shook Woulter's good hand.

"I'd cuff you for that remark." Woulter snorted. "Never had to cuff Peter. I taught him manners."

"Yeah, and you're gonna be able to use those manners when you find something better to do with your lives. An officer of mine once told me to find some better men, men that knew how to build, think, and create, rather than destroy as we're doing now. I reckon I found a couple of 'em right here."

"Oh, I don't know about that…" Woulter shook his head. "And I don't think this is the right decision we're making either. We're – we're running out on our friends. You, Aimo, the Highlanders, you're all doing something noble here. We're running away. It feels cowardly."

"Survival seems cowardly. But it's the right thing to do. Peter, if your dad tells you to turn around and come back here, you right-out ignore him. You're not in any trouble here. You can leave with Corta. We've had our differences yeah, but Corta's only looking out for you."

"He's looking out for you, James."

"I'm already binned. I can't leave here, ever. They'll have me hung – hanged – for what I've done. At least this way I can do something properly before… before my real estate deal." Pausing, Larn scratched the rough underside of his chin, his expression one of acceptance. "Now, please leave. Go on, iggery."

* * *

Seeing off Woulter and Peter, I turned and was immediately surrounded by Aimo, Cyrano, the Highlanders, and the rest of the odds and sods we had pulled out of the cellars, all throwing questions at me; calm discussion being thrown aside callously in favour of disorganised argument.

"Aimo." I grabbed Aimo's shoulder and shouted. "Take charge here. Organise the men into fireteams. I'll go over their disposition once I've spoken to the MO."

"Right." Aimo nodded.

"And watch her." I jerked my head in Keladi's direction. She had wisely stayed in the background during the stand-off but was now attracting some attention.

"What do I with her?" Aimo pushed outwards at grunts who were crowding him. "Come on, you lot, give us some room here."

Grasping Aimo's shoulder, I said in his ear, "she's Izuru's sister."

"What – really?" Aimo stared, astonished.

"You know what I mean."

"Well, I don't but…"

"Just – just keep her closeby." I patted him on the shoulder and shoved my way through the throng in the direction of the CCS's gate. Leaping up the stone steps, I went inside and called out. "Where's the commanding officer here?"

"Downstairs, mate." An orderly looked me up and down curiously, aware of how bad I smelt and my current state of dress which, to him, may have looked completely barbaric. Whatever, I did not care how I looked, or that I was several weeks overdue a shower and appeared terribly scruffy.

"You the MO here?" I asked an officer in a white coat after trotting down a narrow flight of steps that led down to a cellar. The officer had short, curly hair, green eyes and a somewhat weak chin. He was also sweating profusely and looked several days overdue of sleep. No different from our lot then.

"No, sorry. We have no medical officers here currently," the officer replied, glancing at the stairs then to me.

"Right, you're a doctor then?"

"Well, I'm a surgeon more than I am a doctor really."

"You're the ranking officer here though, sir?"

"Yes, I'm Major Fillip Serreck. Er, I thought your unit just left. At least that was what I was told…"

"Lieutenant Corta ordered us to dig into the grounds and the streets around the CCS. We'll be keeping Zeke away from here so your team can get as many wounded out of here as possible, sir."

"Oh, that's very noble of him. Well, we're grateful for your assistance…"

"Larn, Major."

"Hm, alright, Larn. You're not perchance the man your Lieutenant Corta mentioned as being under arrest, are you? I wouldn't want a deserter sharing the facilities here with men that deserve them."

The lie came easily. "No, sir. I'm Sarn't James Larn, Corta's 2IC. My staff sergeant was killed yesterday. The man under arms – Lance Corporal Careth Belisha – went with Mister Corta just now. He'll be turned over to provosts as soon as they can be found, sir."

Serreck appeared to swallow the lie hook, line, and sinker. "Fine. That business is over then. Good riddance."

"Yes, sir. At what – at what rate are you removing the wounded?"

"Well…" Serreck stuck his hands in the pockets of his coat. The thing was stained all over with equal amounts of blood and muck. "I'm still waiting for the ambulances to return from the airbase. They may have been waylaid by last night's bombing. Emperor forbid, the road is bad enough as it is."

"How far is it to the airbase?"

"Six klicks."

"Six klicks? They've been gone hours."

"It took me nearly two and a half hours to make the round trip yesterday evening. We can move twelve stretcher cases, spread across three ambulances, if you're looking for numbers, Sergeant."

"…Twelve?"

"That's the most we've been able to make of the situation, Sergeant." Serreck smiled. "I'd accept it. It's all we can do."

"And you've…" I rounded on the empty operating table, dismayed to see it bereft of a patient in need of surgery.

"Shut down the operating theatre, yes. I already informed Lieutenant Corta of this last night. Did he not inform you of our situation?"

"Yes, sir," I said quickly, sensing I was about to get into some hot water. "Sorry, we've had a rough time getting here from our firebase. We're all a bit shagged here."

"Okay, I understand. Is there anything we can do to help with the defences?"

"Any way in from the back of the building, sir? Any doors, windows?"

"Two windows, both at ground level—"

"Shore 'em up with anything you can lay your hands on. Any walking wounded that can use their arms and legs without too much trouble, I want seeing to the back of the building. If you need any help, I'll be outside."

 _Now to sort this rabble out,_ I said to myself when I stepped out of the door. Always dependable, Aimo had organised several five-man fireteams out of the odds and sods, each based around an automatic weapon. "How's it looking?" I nodded at Cyrano, who acknowledged with a smile. "Aimo?"

"Okay, I propose we split our numbers in two. Fifteen men in three five-man fireteams making up a section. These two sections are gonna set up firing positions in the outlying streets. One to the north-west of the CCS. One to the north-east. Now the north-west section – we'll call it One Section – will be positioned in an L-shape with our two section automatics set up to catch Zeke in a crossfire when he comes down the street."

"Fine. Same with the other section?"

"Two L-shapes are gonna have grunts in each other's line of fire but only if Zeke reaches the street running behind the CCS."

"Right, so the L-shape thing stands until Zeke reaches the street behind the CCS. Then, let's say One Section reforms from the L and makes a solid defence line with Two Section's Rekyl in enfilade."

"Okay, but we'll be splitting our fire. We might need more weight on Two Section's flank, and you're talking about diverting the Rekyl to support One Section."

"Yeah, that's just the basic plan. We'll assess the terrain and see how things go." Letting out a breath, I scratched the back of my greasy head. To tell the truth, I really had little to no idea of how to set up a defensive position in urban warfare. I was not trained in street fighting tactics, or any kind of combat that didn't take place upon an open field in favourable conditions. Aimo's ingenuity though spoke for him. "Did you get training in street-fighting, mate?" I said quietly.

"Nereus taught us stuff they didn't during training," Aimo said. And that was that.

"Uhh, I might need you to take over…"

" _No_. No, James, you're not shying away from this."

"I don't know what I'm doing," I whispered. "I'm not trained for this."

"None of us are. They're looking to you to lead, to give the orders and make the hard decisions which I know you can do." Aimo clasped my shoulder and grinned. "That speech, mate. You're a hero. You don't give yourself enough credit. Stop kicking yourself in the bollocks for things that have happened and step up. Do it for Izuru, for Keladi too. Be our sergeant again."

"This is about you, Aimo. You and the lads there matter more than them stickies do to me. And honestly, I couldn't care less about being a sarn't now. I've been up and down the bloody ladder enough for it to get boring."

"Well, you're still my sarn't. You'll always be my sarn't, pal. And I'll always be your corp." Aimo patted his thigh pockets. "I'm short a smoke. We're in trouble now."

"Take 'em." I handed him my last packet. "I'm short a light."

Generously Aimo lit us both. "Right, shall we see about recceing those positions?"

"Mmm. Hang on a mo'."

"What, you forget something?"

"No, I'm gonna sort Keladi out first."

"Fine. Don't take too long."

Keladi was still sitting out of the way of the recently-organised sections but had fallen under the gaze of quite a few of the odds and sods whose intentions could not have been less benign.

"Come on, you." I pulled Keladi to her feet and escorted her through the waiting grunts.

"Cyrano, I need your gun." I was past calling it a piece or a weapon now. And who was around to tell me otherwise?

"Very well." Cyrano wilfully passed his M-36 to me. Nothing else was said but Cyrano nodded at Keladi. Maybe he guessed who she was.

"Property of the sergeant, is she?" a helmetless grunt in a tattered windproof smock leered at Keladi.

"Anyone touches her gets a bullet," I said. It was a promise I fully intended to stand by. Emperor only knew what I had envisioned for any potential assailants would seem incredibly tame compared to what Izuru would do if Keladi was harmed by any of us. If it was one thing I feared, it was Izuru's wrath.

Once inside the hab's entrance hall and alone, Keladi said something to me. "Sorry, I don't understand. You know I don't understand." I shrugged, nonplussed. "Wish Izuru was here."

"Izuru." Keladi's face turned gloomy.

"Come on, upstairs." Checking no-one was watching from the doorway, I led Keladi upstairs to the first floor. I suspected, as uniformity was part of Cadian society, that each floor above would be identical. Rough, unpainted walls were routinely marked by heavy bulkhead doors with locking mechanisms that looked naval – great big wheels that needed to be turned several revolutions. Working one such wheel, first one way, and then the other, I gasped as the exertion needed to disengage the lock was immense. Muttering something, Keladi took ahold of the wheel and helped turn it.

"There." I panted, shoving the door inwards. "Right, in you go."

Taking in the layout of the room, Keladi kept her hands stiffly by her sides as she went in. Only the basic amenities were afforded to the ordinary Cadian citizen it seemed. Four bunks – more pallets with mattresses and pillows – were spaced, two each on opposite sides of the room. In the centre, set in the wall, was a large fan that would have normally seen to the room's temperature. Without power though the fan lay dormant. Underneath it was a grey sink with a single tap; cold water only, I guessed. Beside it was a mirror. Like the fan it too was set in the wall – bolted down tight so it could be broken and used as a weapon.

"Look. Look here." I beckoned to Keladi. "Let's see if you're really who I think you are."

As reactions went, Keladi's could not have been more genuine. If she was an imposter then she was also an extremely talented at acting. What began as a slow, uneasy look of dismay quickly worsened. Clapping her hands over her mouth, Keladi shrunk away from the reflection, her eyes widening in horror. Collapsing on the floor she clasped at her throat wheezing.

"What did they do to you?" Kneeling beside the poor girl, I unclasped my canteen and offered it to her. "Poor thing."

Chugging the lukewarm water, the stuff dribbling down her chin, Keladi coughed when she caught the taste of promethium, spitting some back up in disgust.

"Sorry. Only way to get water, I'm afraid," I said, retrieving my canteen before Keladi could drain it. "I need you to listen now."

Unslinging Cyrano's Kantrael, I took the weapon into both hands and adopted a stance. "Keladi?"

Wiping at the brimming tears, Keladi turned despair-filled eyes to me.

"Listen." I pointed two fingers, first at myself, then at the M-36. "This is your basic M-36 Pattern Kantrael lasgun, okay. M-36."

"Emm thurtee six," Keladi repeated, sitting up straight. Wiping her nose, she swallowed, pulling herself together and giving me her attention.

"Power pack," I said, pressing the button in the magazine well and sliding the power pack out. With the weapon emptied I passed it to Keladi. "Take it in both hands. Don't be afraid."

Awkwardly shouldering the lasgun, Keladi wrapped her forefinger around the trigger and passed the muzzle across my body.

"Ah-ah." I gently pushed the muzzle away. "Firstly, finger off the trigger." I pointed at Keladi's trigger-finger, waving my own forefinger in emphasis.

Understanding, Keladi removed her finger and rested it on the magwell, looking at me for confirmation.

"Yep. Good. Good. Now – watch your muzzle." I indicated the chunky muzzle, trying to mime that Keladi was not to point it at anything that she did not intend to engage. After getting her to point the muzzle at me, I waved a finger and shook my head. "No. No. Number ten."

Hopefully getting the message, Keladi hastily pointed the muzzle elsewhere. "Number ten."

"Okay. Selector." I showed Keladi the three-position fire controls. S for safe, A for automatic, and R for repetition. "Pull the trigger now." I mimed pulling a trigger with my forefinger.

"Mmm." Keladi examined the fire selector after she tried pulling the trigger. With the weapon set to safe, the trigger was disabled and would not budge.

"Now. Semi-automatic."

Setting the Kantrael to repetition, Keladi smiled when the trigger clicked audibly.

"Okay, we'll stay with semi for now." Pressing the charge pack into Keladi's hand, I added. "I'm trusting you with this now."

"Mm, okay." Keladi nodded, fitting the charge pack and propping the Kantrael against a bunk.

"Okay, stay." I raised a hand. "Please stay. I'm not worrying about you too."

Realising I was about to leave her by herself, Keladi adopted a wounded expression.

"Sit down. Stay there."

Shaking her head earnestly, Keladi picked up her M-36 and made to follow me out.

"No. _No_. You're not coming with me." Retreating to the door, I pulled the heavy steel shut, ignoring Keladi's protests. _Sorry, lass. I don't want to be worrying about you as well as the lads._ I needed to concentrate on organising the defence of the CCS. With Keladi out of the way, I could wait for Izuru to find us. An optimistic thought, I know. But I had full confidence in her ability to give the inquisition the slip, and hopefully waste the inquisitor in the process.

* * *

 **Bastion 1, now General Headquarters Cadian Home Army, 09:24**

Unlike his corps commanders, General Ursarker Edgar Creed's spirits rose when he received notification that the void shield protecting the citadel and the eastern quarter of Kasr Kraf had collapsed, as it would hopefully divert a good portion of the enemy's bomber squadrons away from bombarding the western and southern quarter of Kraf, as they had been doing over the past weeks. It would also relieve pressure from the airbase, the facilities and runways there, having been under near-constant air attack, both from bombers and fighters. Though the Cadian Home Army's Air Corps were engaging – or trying to engage – the enemy as far from the evacuation points as possible, many of Zeke's raiders still made it through to deliver their payloads upon the tarmac. With the losses the Air Corps had sustained, the idea of preventing every single enemy aircraft from breaking through was fast becoming a wild dream.

Further lifting Creed's spirits was the belated arrival of Kasr Luten's choir beacon at the citadel. After touching down at the citadel, the Valkyrie bearing the package – as well as several stretcher cases – was directed on to Bastion 1, which Creed had taken over as his headquarters with the departure of the rear admiral to the waiting ships. To Creed's dismay, Lieutenant Colonel Donjeta Lapraik, the officer whom he had authorised with the task, was not present. Only her adjutant, Captain Lyle Ruth showed up.

"Good afternoon, Captain Ruth." Creed beckoned the officer forward into the packed room. "Cigar?"

"Thank you, My Lord Castellan." Ruth bowed.

"Oh, don't be such a kowtower. Stand up straight when you speak to your general," Creed grunted, passing Ruth a cigar from his personal box.

"Sorry, General. We've had a rather trying time. I humbly apologise for the lengthened delay." Ruth nervously lit his cigar and waved the crate containing the beacon forwards. "The package, as ordered."

"Capital!" Creed barked. "Volquan. See your remaining psykers are inducted into this beacon. I want tidings sent far and wide of this treachery. And bring me reinforcements."

"My Lord." Astropath Cyris Volquan, blind like all astros, bowed, and hobbled away on his staff.

"And what of your lieutenant colonel?" Creed glared.

"Alas, the lieutenant colonel's Valkyrie was downed by ground fire on the flight down from Kasr Jark, General. I do not know if she yet lives, either as a devout soldier of the Emperor, or as a captive of the Chaos hordes."

"No matter. You have accomplished your objective, Captain. Thank you, and good luck. Dismissed."

The loss of Donjeta Lapraik cut Creed deeply, for he was fond of the young officer. She had showed pluck by taking on that mission. Pluck and ingenuity. Her loss would be remembered. Creed dearly hoped he would see her name amongst the many honours printed on the front page of both the Cadian Inquirer and the Imperator Victrix when both daily issues were published. If not put up for a decoration then her name should be on the front-page column; it was what she deserved. Hell, Creed himself would personally recommend her for the Macharian Cross, and in such a way that it would not be refused.

All that had happened the previous day. Now, on the fifth day of the fifth week of the invasion, everything began happening at once. Dismissing the director of medicae services, who had told him that he was suffering from exhaustion and needed proper rest, Creed had taken to the command post within Bastion 1 in the small hours of the morning and surveyed the strategic map. An update from Kasr Jark, which itself was suffering heavy, round-the-clock bombardment, described the Space Wolves Great Company taking to the field from Jark's walls alongside the Dark Angels Four Company which had sallied forth from the downed strike cruiser. Both companies were launching a counteroffensive against the air-dropped bastions of the Warsmith Krom Gat. Acknowledging with a grateful reply – the Space Marines were at last getting off their collective, armoured backsides – Creed was then issued with updates from Kasr Stark on the west, the Kolarak Plains to the east of Kraf, and Martyr's Rampart, 72 klicks to the south. The tidings were all dire.

Every communique his headquarters was receiving now spoke of mutated warp-spawn, Chaos Space Marines, and millions of corrupted, traitor-guardsmen either steadily pushing the gallant defenders back towards Kraf or keeping them locked in a meatgrinder and unable to disengage. Stark was being overrun and pleaded for relief that Creed could not provide. II Corps, formerly under the command of Lieutenant General Lucian Garrett, was now being handled by an overworked brigadier with the general's death. Though supported by the fighter-bombers of Marine Air Group 15, the beleaguered Corps was having to contend with Chaos titans which roamed freely across the vast flatness of the Kolarak Plains. In the south, the Black Templars were conducting a fighting retreat, having had to abandon Martyr's Rampart after an enemy cruiser, firing from orbit, had obliterated the entire structure. To the Templars' credit, all previous offensives had been repulsed. The enemy was too afraid to engage the Templars in a head-on assault, forcing them to resort to the somewhat cowardly, though more efficient manner of precision bombardment. As distasteful as he found the Marines, Creed now felt a deep-seated respect for the Templars' continuing resistance. Were it not for them, Martyr's Rampart would have fallen far sooner. Another worry was the thinly-defended outer bastion wall which, if reports were to be believed, had already been breached in multiple areas, allowing the enemy to advance – though still opposed – through the streets of the Aptus District, with only the inner perimeter – that Bastion 1 was part of – left to stop the enemy from spilling out onto the evacuation points in and around the airbase.

"Rather an itchy situation. Wouldn't you agree, Alex?" Creed said to Major General Alexis Rebbeck, GOC Cadian 1st Guards Division, who had just been admitted to the command post.

"If you say so, sir," Rebbeck replied, removing his beret and smoothing his hair.

"Alex?" Creed beckoned to Rebbeck. "I am in need of a replacement GOC for One Corps."

"Throne. They haven't done for old Wallace, have they?" Rebbeck exclaimed. "Damned dirty business."

"Could you take over the defence of the northern sector for me? We're thin on the ground now, and everything is a bit disorganised."

"A little above my station, an entire corps…"

"Oh, you'll manage. You'll probably only have what amounts to one division's strength, truth be told. The entire corps is in quite a sorry state. Can I count on you?"

"Absolutely, sir." Rebbeck accepted the new position readily. "And what does the lord castellan command One Corps' GOC to do?"

"Exactly what Cathker Wallace was doing. But…" Creed lowered his voice, not wanting to be overhead by any of his staff. "If it comes, and the enemy is threatening your command directly, leave a brigadier here, and make for the ships with all haste. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." Rebbeck replied.

"I shall mention furthermore, that if – with the collapse of Kasr Stark – the enemy's warmachine turns its sights upon the western outskirts of Kraf, I shall adjourn from this command post and personally lead the 8000 men and women of The Lord Castellan's Own onto the Elysion Fields, where they shall do battle with the legions of Chaos. We will buy you as much time as we can to get your forces off-world."

Folding his arms, Rebbeck said, "and do you to intend to leave a brigadier holding the reigns of Eight Brigade if the time comes?"

Gesturing with his cigar, Creed replied stonily. "Cadia is my home. As long as I live, I will not see her humbled and downtrodden underneath the boot of Chaos. If the time comes, let it be known that the lord castellan gave his life for Cadia, which stood alone and undefeated. Cadia stands, General."

"Cadia stands," echoed Rebbeck.

* * *

 **Kasr Kraf Airbase, Solarus District, 10:04**

Smoke from ruptured promethium tanks and burning refineries rose up hundreds of feet into the sky, hanging like an ominous cloud of foreboding death over the airbase. With the narrow route along the northern perimeter wall choked by refugees, wrecked motor vehicles, other soldiers, and hastily thrown-up defences, the single file of grunts that was Cannon Company felt their progress throttled, and gradually brought to a standstill when they hit a line of Cadians. Extending as far as they could see, the Cadian file did not appear to be in any way moving, leading the men of C Company to awkwardly shuffle on the spot, their sore feet making it uncomfortable to be standing still.

"Why aren't we moving?" Private Arrigo said to no-one in particular, hoping somebody might come out with an answer.

Lieutenant Corta, just as in the dark as the rest of his men, offered an answer. "Because we are at the end of a very long line of men, Private. When our turn comes, it will come."

Some nervous glances were cast around. Being out on the street in broad daylight was putting the wind up some of the jumpier grunts who were fearful of air attack, not a man among them aware that it was more dangerous inside the airbase's walls than it was just outside; where C Company was at that moment lined up. They had been waiting for a little while when a Cadian warrant officer, in a greatcoat and bearing a map case, strode down the line. His intentions became clear when he reached Corta's men. "Any walking wounded among you? No room for stretcher cases."

"Two of my men down there." Corta indicated Woulter and Peter. "I'm Second Lieutenant Corta. This is Cannon Company."

"Can that man walk?" the warrant officer looked the hobbling Woulter up and down suspiciously. "The boy bears no wounds. He must step back in line."

"WO, he is the man's son. He will be taking his father to the ships," Corta said firmly.

"Very well, sir. But the rest of you, I need you to return to Bastion One. We are only accepting walking wounded, and you are all still able-bodied. Any teeth formations are to report to Bastion One, by order of General Creed."

"WO—?" Corta began to ask why.

"I'm sorry, sir. Those were the orders I was told to give. I know no more than you do."

Once the warrant officer had gone, Corta turned to his men. Many of them had faces like thunder, others despair. Peter was still supporting Woulter, not knowing where to go. "Well, good luck to you Woulter. And you, Peter." Corta shook Woulter's hand, trying for an encouraging smile. "I am proud of the both of you. Your conduct during the retreat was exemplary."

"Thank you, sir." Both Tabors echoed.

"Alright, you follow the warrant officer now. And take care."

It struck a mournful chord within Peter to be leaving the lieutenant and the rest behind. Mister Corta had been so good to him and his father, and now the poor man was being denied entry to the evacuation points and ordered back the way he had come.

"I don't like leaving the lads," Peter said.

"Don't worry about them. Mister Corta's got them this far. He'll bring them out safely," Woulter said reassuringly. "They're clever blokes. They'll be alright."

Permitted to move down the centre of the road, the only space not taken up by queuing men or rubble, Peter realised, after a half hour's going, just how far Corta and the rest were from the gate. Facing west, the airbase's main entryway – or one of them – was choked with coils of concertina wire, bolter nests, concrete pillboxes, and tank traps, funnelling the queuing soldiers, great lines of khaki and olive grey, quite unending in every direction, into single file so that they could be admitted one at a time.

"Name, unit, number." The Cadian NCO behind a screen of bullet-resistant glass repeated, as he had done for every man and women that had come and gone before the Tabors.

"I'm Woulter Leurbach, this is Peter Leurbach. We're both Cannon Company, 144th Battalion," Woulter said.

The NCO's fingers were a blur on his keypad. "No such unit exists. Please step out of the line and await further instructions."

"Uh, sir, we're 144th Battalion. Our headquarters is in Kasr Jark," Woulter said quickly.

"Fall out of line and await further instructions. That is all," the NCO said coldly.

"It's not fair. It's right there," Peter muttered, looking at the stone steps that led up onto the base.

"Ssh, Peter. We'll find a way, don't worry."

A tapping on the glass caught the unhelpful NCO's attention. "Excuse me, Sergeant," a Cadian officer said impatiently. "You are in error. These two guardsmen are in my company. They will be going through without delay."

"I can't let them—"

"I want to speak to the duty officer, Sergeant. Perhaps he can explain why I am being held up by petty paper-pushing."

"My apologies, sir." The NCO, becoming flustered at the interruption to his routine, drummed out a piece on his keypad. "Two passes for wounded."

At his words, two card tags attached to loops of string dropped down a narrow, cylindrical chute, popping into existence in a trough beneath the glass. Peter plucked both tags from the trough and gave one to Woulter.

"You take your father and make for the nearest medicae vessel. Do it now," the Cadian officer said.

"Thank you, sir." Woulter let out a breath of relief.

"Thought we were sunk there." Peter, equally relieved and grateful for the officer's kindness, helped Woulter up the steps towards the square of light. With all the trouble C-for-Cannon had had from the Cadians before, it did not seem possible that there existed a Cadian that was not out to threaten, shoot at, look down on, or otherwise inconvenience the Cannon grunts.

Much the same as the city's streets outside, the airbase was a wreck. Broken and abandoned vehicles were everywhere. Craters pocketed the roads and runways. A number of buildings and hangars were burning, and all of them had suffered some kind of damage. Walls from fighter pens had tumbled down, leaving the parked Lightnings with little to no cover from strafing. Aircraft, either destroyed during air attack or simply unserviceable had been shunted off the runways and landing pads by bulldozers and left in heaps of twisted, blackened metal, sticking up in all directions. Debris lay everywhere – masonry, rubbish, weapons, dead bodies. The stench was appalling – of decaying flesh, smouldering rubber, burning fuel, and acrid, choking dust. Peter and Woulter also, for the first time, saw the true scale of the evacuation. Tens of thousands of men were lined up on crater-scarred runways, spilling out of buildings they had occupied, or just sitting on the grass that separated each mile-long strip of tarmac; like insects, waiting.

Up in low orbit, or either in the process of taking off or landing, were transport barges, perilously few in number. Many, brought down in previous days, were simply left lying on their sides once the onboard fires had been tended. The sounds of battle, now that the Tabors were free of the noise-deadening effects of the buildings, was loud, despite it taking place far from the airbase' walls. Within the confines however, there was precious little happening. Seizing the opportunity to board a medicae transport, Peter and Woulter latched onto a loose chain of walking wounded that were allowed to pass the ranks of the waiting Cadian artillerymen and followed them up a steep ramp that rose a good seventy feet above ground level. The gain in height was for the benefit of transport vessels and other spaceworthy craft that did not have the capability – landing gear – to set down safely upon a landing pad, having only the facilities to dock in orbit. The airbase's seven special docking claws were their only means of berthing.

Ushered along in the wake of the ragged files of walking wounded, Peter and Woulter were ordered along a tightly-packed gantry not more than twenty feet wide, all the way to the end where a pot-bellied transport, boldly-emblazoned with the twin snakes encircling the staff – the symbol of the Officio Medicae – was berthed. It was the only ship currently using the dock.

"Are you the last ones?" the ship's master, a fresh-faced and nervous-looking lieutenant, asked.

"Don't know, sir, sorry." Woulter did the talking, hoping the officer would not notice Peter was able-bodied.

"Are we departing berth now, Lieutenant?" a sub-lieutenant nearby said.

"Uh, I'm not sure." The lieutenant checked the chrono on his wrist anxiously. "We're not nearly close to full…"

That much came clear when Peter and Woulter discovered the deck they were on was bare of passengers. All the bunks that would normally fold out from the white-painted bulkheads were vacant. "Here. Down here." Woulter chose to be set down on a bunk that offered an unobstructed route over to the airlock. "If we go down in atmo, it's better to be closer to a door than flailing about in the dark below decks."

"I didn't think of that." Peter gingerly perched upon a bunk next to Woulter's. "What if we're not in atmo?"

"There'll be lifepods. Plenty of them round here somewhere."

Having swallowed what his father had said before, Peter now was not sure whether Woulter knew for certain or was simply saying such things to reassure him. "Okay, I'm – I'm just not sure what to do if we do go down. I'm scared."

"There'll be someone around to tell us what to do. Don't worry," Woulter said gently. "It won't be that difficult."

Footsteps on the deck and an officer wearing a navy-issue helmet and gun belt stepped through a narrow accessway.

"Excuse me, sir, what are we supposed—?" Woulter began, only for the officer to cut in irritably.

"Move down to the lower decks please."

"Can't we…?"

"Move down to the lower decks please."

"Alright, alright." Woulter sat upright, pain etched in his face. "Help me here, Peter."

"Take that man down to the lower decks then return to the shore."

"I'm sorry, sir?" Peter glanced at the officer in dread.

"If you are able-bodied, you must step off. This is a medicae ship."

"Please, sir. He's my dad."

Brushing it off callously, the officer remained adamant that Peter was not to remain onboard. "Take your father down to the lower decks and remove yourself from this vessel."

"Sorry, Dad," Peter whispered, as the officer followed them down a steep set of stairs that lead into the lower belly of the ship.

"Not your fault. I'm sorry you can't come with me, Peter." Woulter hugged Peter tightly as he helped him lie down on a bunk. "Aah, blasted arm and leg."

"I don't want to go, Dad." Peter, his face buried in Woulter's shoulder, would not let go. "I'm all on my own out there."

"You're a grown-up now, boy. We've done what we had to do to make it through. You'll be fine. I'll see you in short while."

With the Navy officer not letting Peter out of his sight, he could do nothing but climb back up the ladder and step off the ship where he was brusquely ordered back down the line. Trudging glumly along the gantry, Peter kept his head down, conscious of the accusing stares some of the Cadians were giving him. All faces were then diverted by a sharp, single-note report in the distance. Craning necks and standing on tip-toes, the Cadians jostled at one another to see what was going on.

From near 1000 yards, closer to the south-east corner of the airbase, a Hyperios missile turret had just fired a surface-to-air missile. Watching the projectile fly westwards, captivated by the arrow-straight trail it left, the gunners heard the _pom-pom-pom_ of Scoba 40-millimetre batteries as they opened up. A ruffle of unease swept through the gunners' ranks when tiny black clouds appeared on the western horizon. Not wanting to be caught in berth during an air attack, a low hum began resonating from the transport's engines. Up near the open airlock, a whistle was blown. Simultaneously the docking claws began inching forwards, bringing the vessel out of its berth and giving its twin engines space to fire. Watching the ship's progress with a dry mouth, Peter's knuckles were white as he gripped the thin rail, hoping, praying there would be no attack. At first no enemy planes showed, the pom-pom batteries apparently seeing him off.

A head turned to look up into the sky, followed by another and another as more and more realised what was coming straight at them from above. Suddenly feeling quite alone, even amidst the swell of bodies, Peter's nervous anticipation died then and was replaced with an impotent, shaking fear when his ears picked up the growing drone of aero engines. Hidden by the smoke, the raiders dived down from above, peeling off gracefully from their three-plane vic and lining up on the defenceless transport as it made its ponderous way out of its berth. Only Avengers made that noise when they dived, a terrible banshee-like wail that brought every man crowding the gantries to his knees, in a huddle with the man beside him, trying to hide underneath his respective helmet; hoping his time wasn't up. All protests were for naught. The peaking crescendo of air rushing through the fighter-bomber's perforated airbrakes fell upon them all in its indiscriminate, omnipotent majesty. It was judgement.

Keeping as still as he could, his fingers plugging his ears, Peter felt tears escape his tightly-shut eyes as the horrific cacophony roared over his head. Unseen by all, bombs began to fall, exploding amongst groups of soldiers, tearing through bulkheads, severing steel cables, spreading destruction and death through the dockyard.

"She's hit!" somebody cried, his voice quickly being drowned out as a second pass delivered rocket salvos into the vacant berths. Flinching from the chain of explosions going off nearby, Peter pulled himself up and leant over the rail. "Dad!" he wailed, terror gripping him. The Medicae ship, sustaining several hits from rockets, had broken free of the docking claws but now lacked the power to gain altitude. Fires were now burning within multiple holes blown in the superstructure. After giving one last surge of momentum, first the port engine died, and then the starboard. Gradually, as if some external force was slowing it down, the ship keeled over on its port side, crashing into the ground in a blaze of sparks. From the same airlock that Peter had left, tiny figures wreathed in flames clambered out before sliding down the smooth hull to roll like madmen around on the blackened grass. Their cries of agony were ignored as the Cadian gunners got to their feet and fell back into line to wait for the next ship. Unable to tear his way through the taller men to get a closer look at Woulter's ship, Peter, rendered helpless and struck dumb by the suddenness of the bombing, whispered, "…Dad?"

Not a man around Peter wondered why the boy was crying. No consolation was offered. Nothing was said. It had happened, and now everybody else was moving on; only concerned with their own lives. Within the crowd, a single helmet was removed, and a lonely, tear-streaked face looked up at the sky. Contrary to his father's final words, Peter Leurbach did not feel like a man anymore.

* * *

 **2 blocks north of 12th Casualty Clearing Station, Aptus District, 10:40**

For hours Zeke crawled south through Aptus, house by house, street by street. Judging from the heavy exchanges of automatic gunfire, he was being waylaid at every corner. Yet it was not enough to halt his advance which ground forwards, sometimes sluggishly but always in motion; never stalling. In the hours since Aimo and I had gone over the terrain to the north of the CCS, we had found suitable positions for the two sections. 1 Section, under Aimo's command, had a smooth, and completely sheer block of concrete that elevated a pair of railway tracks above the city streets by way of a ramp on his extreme left; giving him solid protection from any flanking action. 1 Section, we decided, would occupy the habs underneath the railway line, granting protection from mortars and artillery firing indirectly. I left it to Aimo to choose his fields of fire. I trusted him fully and had confidence he would make the most of his section's position. Also choosing a spot underneath the concrete roof, I deployed 2 Section's riflemen facing north, and the Highlander's Rekyl team – with an extra grunt as security – at an angle further east along the street which would allow it to rake Zeke's flank when he moved into the narrowest point of the backwards L. The fireplan was to let Zeke get as close as possible, preferably after his scouts had passed through our line, and let fly on the main body, making mincemeat of it.

As all preparations were completed by 0800, I left Cyrano in charge of 2 Section, and headed back to the CCS. Zeke was still a way away yet. And, of course, we would hear him long before we saw him, such was the loud, bombastic manner with which he had to conduct his daily affairs.

"Keladi?" I rapped loudly upon the door of the hab dorm. "Keladi, it's me."

Getting no reply, I dragged the wheel around and shoved the door inwards, finding the small room bereft of stickie. _Where've you got to then?_ Getting on my knees, I swept underneath both bunks. _Come on, lass. Don't do this now_. Hurrying downstairs, I crossed the street, making for the muncip building. _Where's that major?_ Quickly coming across Major Serreck, I asked him if he had seen a red-haired girl.

"She's hard to miss." Serreck laughed, nodding at the next room across, similarly packed with stretcher cases.

"Oh, good." I saw Keladi was moving around the room and bearing two mess tins filled with water; providing for the wounded.

"Clever girl boiled them beforehand. Is she yours?"

"No, no. I'm just watching her until her… friend can come and take her off my hands."

"Well, she's certainly caused a bit of a stir, I can tell you. Some of these poor souls think she's an angel. Is she mute?"

"Shell-shocked, sir. I think she had a rather nasty turn before she got here. You will tell me if there's any trouble, won't you?"

"Aha, so that's where that broken wrist came from." Serreck smiled knowingly. "I wouldn't worry about her. It appears she can handle herself."

An orderly bursting in interrupted Serreck. "Sir, the ambulances are back. They've brought two more with them."

"Excuse me." Serreck left with the orderly, leaving me by myself.

Intrigued by Keladi's resourcefulness, I hovered at a distance before going over to her. "Hello, Keladi."

Keladi's face lit up at my approach. Lifting up a half-empty mess tin, she offered the water to me.

"Ta." I took a sip. There was not a single trace of promethium in the water.

"What is her name?" A man with blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his chest, and an amputated leg, asked. "I must know."

"Keladi." I figured there was no harm in letting him know Keladi's name. With the surgery, she was no longer recognisable as a stickie, rather occupying the gap between human and stickie. Neither one nor the other, like Izuru.

"Keladi." The man smiled peacefully, his eyelids drooping. It was not clear at first but he would not be awakening from his slumber.

"Nah, he's gone," I said, gently feeling for the man's pulse. It was the best way to go for sure, in one's sleep, and having gazed upon a beautiful face just before. If there could be such a thing as a good way to go in this day and age.

"Come on, Keladi." I took her arm and guided her away. Someone else would be along to check shortly. Against my expectations, she had taken the death before her very well, not appearing even slightly fazed. But then, I suppose, she was technically a trained combatant, however youthful her exterior. With the idea to take her back to the hab and shut her inside the dorm again, I went back on the idea as Keladi was apparently making herself useful around the CCS. "Okay, you carry on here, Keladi," I said, patting her on the shoulder. A reply, offered in a little voice, I ignored. There were more important things to focus on. Armed, and in the company of others, Keladi would be safe. After all she had easily fended off unwanted attention, and given the perpetrator a broken wrist to boot, the incident speaking louder than any words could that she was not to be messed with.

Out in the street I noted, with approval, that Major Serreck was helping to load his five ambulances and would be driving one himself down to the evacuation points. A small column of walking wounded was just setting out as well. None of the measures taken would substantially thin the CCS's numbers. But any greater number of men saved from Zeke's clutches was a small victory.

Now, just gone 1030, I lay in wait with the rest of 2 Section, listening to the clatter of rifles and lasguns, the rattling of automatics, and the shrill whistling of mortars, mixed in with the heavier, thunderous sound of artillery. I counted the spacing between shots. It was near-constant. Within our position, not a single one of us spoke. Only sweat standing out on brows and nervously flitting pairs of eyes betrayed the fear that gnawed greedily within each grunt, tempting him to quietly slink off back to the rear. But nobody did. Admitting readily that I was scared – anyone who didn't was a fool – I thought of Keladi, Izuru, and the men alongside me, further praying for their safety. Pious I was not but I thought it was appropriate, seeing as the next hour or so would be difficult for us all.

"Contact." Cyrano was the first to spot Zeke when his scouts appeared around the street corner, seventy yards down from us.

"Hold your fire." Picking up the pair of officer's field glasses I had scavenged, I glassed the running figures. "They're ours. Pass the word along."

Acknowledging, Cyrano moved through the gutted building, passing the order down from me.

 _Who are you then?_ I surveyed the retreating guardsmen through the scratched lenses. They had to have been the unit previously opposing Zeke. By the sounds of the firing, they had conducted one hell of a fighting retreat, slowly the enemy's attacks down considerably.

"Oi, Guardsman!" I hissed loudly, beckoning at a trooper as he hurried past. Wearing incredibly baggy trousers, and a camouflaged jacket that was not quite the length of an overcoat, the man, startled, fell to his knees, searching around for the source of the noise.

"Over here," I called, catching his eye. Underneath a round, bowl-shaped helmet bearing thin netting and wire, a pair of combat-weary eyes stared back at me. "Who are you? What's your unit?"

Leaping through a low window, the guardsmen in the baggy trousers paused briefly to catch his breath. "Gerax Jaegers. Twelfth Gravtroop Detachment. Who are you?"

"Just some odds and sods. There's three-hundred wounded down at a casualty station a couple of streets back. We're gonna be holding Zeke up here."

"Well, good luck with that." The Gerax began scrambling away.

"Oi, oi. Come on! You can't leave us here. We're just a platoon – thirty blokes – you're…"

"Even less. We've had Zeke hounding us all the way through the streets for hours," the Gerax shot back.

"There might be some of your mates there at the CCS. You want to run out on them?"

The Gerax hesitated, the knowledge that some of his brothers might be left behind stopping him from fleeing.

"Look, give us one of your rifles, if you're not staying. Come on, cough up your grenades too. You don't need 'em."

Slung over the Gerax's right shoulder were two identical rifles, one of which he somewhat begrudgingly parted with alongside a bandolier draped around his neck. Two stick grenades with long, wooden handles were passed over too.

"Go on, iggery." I jerked my head at the gravtrooper who needed little encouragement to follow his unit.

"We could use these men," Cyrano muttered.

"They've done all they can. I'm not forcing 'em to fight. I'm not forcing anyone here to fight. If their hearts aren't in it…" Trailing off, I had a look over the odd rifle the Gerax had left. Absurdly the magazine was sticking out of the side of the weapon which itself was a mish-mash of stamped steel and chunky wood. On top of the body was a flip-up rear sight, lowered to allow the mounting of an optical gunsight. _What kind of weapon is this?_ Perplexed by the strange design, I fiddled with a second flip-up sight near the muzzle and ran a finger along the ribbed muzzle brake.

"James, eyes forward," Cyrano murmured.

Setting aside the rifle, I picked up my Lecta and aimed at the spot on the street corner where the gravtroopers had come from. Surely Zeke was now minutes away. But we had yet to hear him.

My assumption was proved correct when two Zekes ran around the corner. Both carrying rifles, the two kept to either side of the street and hurried forwards, their posture low; wary of falling into a gravtrooper ambush.

"Okay, hold your fire, lads." Checking the levers on my Lecta were both forwards, I set it in the channel I had dug through the rubble and tracked the Zekes' progress. Another pair of scouts quickly followed in the other's wake, advancing a set number of paces forwards, stopping to assess their surroundings then moving on, repeating the manoeuvre. After the fierce stall-and-retreat action fought by the Gerax Jaegers, Zeke now exhibited overt caution. Perhaps the Jaegers had so severely blunted the hardpoint of Zeke's assault that he had lost all of his initial momentum during the earlier struggle through the streets.

Behind the two pairs of scouts came the main body. Spilling from a side street, a platoon-sized force roved across the ups and downs made by the fallen buildings and shell craters, their route exactly the one I had hoped they would take. Excitement threatened to eclipse my coolness, the buzz spreading through my limbs, making them tremble. With the scouts coming up on our positions, my left knee started jiggling. Lying still next to an opening, I could have easily reached out and brushed the scout's ankle with my fingertips when he walked past. Both scouts even glanced into the building were in but neither the first nor the second spotted us, simply walking on to check other ruins along the street. Exhaling slowly – I had held my breath – I looked over at Cyrano and mouthed, " _wait_."

Subtly inclining his head, Cyrano's cold eyes found his rifle's sights. Fingers now rested on triggers, safeties were off, rounds were in chambers. Our target approached. With nothing uncovered by his scouts, Zeke moved forwards readily, glad at the reprieve from the on-off skirmishes he had fought earlier. Steadfastly holding our fire until the platoon was passing our firing positions, I turned to the others and whispered loudly, giving the signal to open fire. "go!"

Like a field of corn swept by a sharpened scythe, Zeke fell in one collective mass, toppling like sacks of potatoes. So many caught at spitting distance by our wild bursts collapsed without a sound, not having had the chance to draw the necessary breath to cry out, to protest the unfairness of the ambush. Eviscerated by the lasguns, .338s, and automatics from the front, the Zeke platoon was further thrown into disarray by the laser-like accuracy of the Rekyl that was biting chunks out of his right flank; the Highlanders' aim merciless. Caught up in the madness of the close-range contact, I ran through my Lecta's magazine, the weapon kicking against my shoulder, a silent stream of cases flying from the port. Having emptied the load into any Zekes still standing, I paused, lowering the smoking weapon. Besides a few stragglers, the entire platoon was down. Scattered shots were sent back our way by the scouts, now cut off from their company, who quickly cottoned on that we were dug in too deeply for them to pry out with small arms alone; quickly fleeing.

Loading a new magazine, I set my Lecta to one side and brought my Castra to bear, aiming just above the street corner where Zeke had retreated, and placing a round of HE there. It exploded right where I intended, bringing out a grin of satisfaction. "Two Section, reload!" I yelled, dumping the spent casing. In the time Zeke broke contact and the loud ringing in my ears had subsided somewhat, firing could be heard in Aimo's sector. He too was being engaged, and heavily by the sounds of it.

"Cyrano, take over for a mo'. I'm gonna go see how Aimo's doing."

"Right, James."

Leaving my Castra and Lecta behind – I could run faster without the encumbrance, I broke free of the cover of the building. Noticing the weaponry lying underneath and around the Zekes we wasted, I called back to Cyrano and the others, "oi, take these," and gathered up a pair of Kazalaks and two Vintoks in my arms. "Take 'em. I'll be back."

On the left flank, Aimo's section was beset with an attack of a larger magnitude. The Zeke platoon had not been ambushed successfully, having heard the initial exchange, opening fire immediately before they were within a suitable range, and rushing to spread themselves out within the buildings.

"How's the right flank?" Aimo shouted between letting loose with his KP-70. He had the stubber firing through a hole blown in the corner and the floor of a room and was keeping the muzzle well back from the opening, giving him defilade on the street in front of his firing position. Rounds were stitching snaking patterns in the tattered wall above his head.

Flinging myself down beside him, I said in his ear, "Zeke broke contact. The right is good for now. I can give you three more guns here if you need 'em."

Deafened, Aimo held up two fingers.

"You want two? I'll get you two."

Nodding, Aimo was smacked in the face as a stick grenade came sailing through.

"Got it." Deftly I scooped the bomb up by the handle and tossed it back outside, feeling the concussive thud when it went off. Scurrying backwards on all-fours, I dragged the nearest grunt over to Aimo's position. "You, protect the stubber."

Further assessment unnecessary, I doubled back to 2 Section. Mortars were exploding all along the railway line overhead, the explosives not nearly powerful enough to penetrate the thick concrete. Zeke would need the long-range snipers for that. At the same moment I made it to 2 Section, a cry of "track" was given.

"Zeke track coming out." Cyrano aimed a hand at the street corner where a Zeke Chimera had appeared. Angling its front armour, the track's commander, boldly standing up in his cupola, surveyed our positions through glasses.

"Keep his fucking head down." I barked, taking the Gerax into my hands and putting my eye to the scope. The crosshairs consisted of two horizonal bars and one vertical bar, with a small gap in the centre for placing the target. It was in that gap I found the track commander's head. Squeezing the unfamiliar trigger, I was distracted from observing the shot placement in conjunction of where the sights were by the ejected brass skimming my face. Dropping the weapon, I clapped a hand to my scalded cheek. Not a rifle I should be firing left-handed then. Even with .338 rounds now skimming off his cuploa, the track commander's attitude was nothing more than nonchalant when he leant back to grasp the pull ring on the inside of his hatch, dropping out of sight.

Convinced of their invulnerability in the face of rifle-fire, the track ground forwards, the long-barrelled autocannon coming around to target the building we were in. Huddling behind the protection of the hull was a second platoon of Zekes. With only a few grenades and no anti-tank weapons – the autocannon was with Aimo. We were sunk.

"What do we do, James?" Cyrano cried as the crash of the track's autocannon brought down showers of dirt on our heads. A second shot punched a plate-sized hole through a thick, concrete foundation, letting in sunlight. The third collapsed part of the ceiling above our heads.

I conceded we were not going to hold against an armoured assault backed up by infantry. If the track advanced alone then a charge from close range against a blind spot may have netted us gains. But Zeke would not let us keep the initiative that easily.

Looping my Castra's and Lecta's sling over my shoulders, I gave the order to pull out of the building. "Cyrano, take the section back one street and set up there. Highlanders, pull out!"

Making sure the Highlanders and their supporting riflemen had safely pulled back, I made sure I was the last out of the building before following. Having just cleared the threshold, a second barrage of autocannon fire was directed upon the ruin, bringing down the ceiling above properly, covering the interior with thick, grey dust. Halting momentarily, the track continued to pour cannon and stubber fire into the building as the infantry behind waited for it to do enough damage and hopefully flush out any enemy that remained. This gave us time to pull back and set up in the street behind.

"Did you—?" I belted out a question to Cyrano only for him to give the answer before I was finished.

"I sent a man down to Aimo. He'll be pulling back too." Cyrano replied, wiggling a finger in his ears.

"Okay."

Gripping the corner of a wall, I looked to see if Zeke was in view then bolted from Cyrano's position, dashing across the street and up a short pile of rubble that had fallen from the wall and roof of a hab. My weaponry bouncing around, I came to rest against a wall near where the Highlanders had set up their Rekyl. As with Aimo's tactic, Lorne, the No. 1, had ensured he had a clear line of fire down the street, and kept the muzzle of his weapon well back from the narrow opening.

"You know, you should find some proper hard cover," I said, tapping a knuckle against my ceramite cover. "I need my gunners protected."

"Not likely, mate," Lorne replied. "We're Gellen Highlanders. We want Zeke to know exactly who we are."

"Does it matter? Would they care?" I hadn't the foggiest clue why Lorne and his friends still cared about the enemy knowing that they were facing a supposedly prestigious regiment. Those khaki berets with the tufts on top the three continually wore offered no practical protection whatsoever.

"It matters to us." Lorne scowled, adding in a low voice, "s'all we've got left."

After a pause, I asked, "you good for ammo? Barrels?"

It was Borens spoke. "We're fine for now."

"Joe, you good over there?" I called across to Herle who was busy taking shots – not with rifle – of the building we had recently vacated.

"Fine." Herle replied.

"They're coming," said Lorne, squeezing the Rekyl's trigger, sending a quick, three-round burst at the first Zekes when they came into view, forcing them to keep back from returning fire.

"Okay, pour it on." I made a fist and performed a jabbing motion with it. The nine of us inside the building could fire unimpeded upon Zeke, but the way in which the street turned sharply prevented Cyrano and the handful of grunts with him on our left flank from adding to it, taking them out of the fight.

"Runner!" I yelled, seeing a Zeke festooned with hand grenades on his belt run up the street under cover of the fire put out by his comrades. "Shoot him!"

Flitting from cover to cover, the Zeke avoided everything fired at him from our side, only falling on his shoulder when hit by a shot that had come from our left; one of Cyrano's grunts having got lucky. It was not a killing shot though as the wounded Zeke managed to drag himself behind the cover of a wall. Whilst the runner was stalking up the right side of the street, more Zekes were moving along the left. Before I could order Lorne to target them, a weapons team, having set up within the building formerly occupied by us, began firing. "Focus on that stubber!"

"Ho!" Lorne acquired the Zeke stubber team and started exchanging fire.

Having to shout at the top of my lungs, I directed the riflemen to focus on the Zekes closing the gap between them and Cyrano. "Base of fire left!" This I chose to include myself in too, letting fly with short bursts from my Lecta alongside the .338s and lasguns. Out of the corner of my eye Cyrano readied a stick grenade and hurled it over the piles of urban wreckage Zeke was hiding behind. The bomb exploded in a cloud of grey smoke. Any Zekes out of the way of the blast were effectively suppressed.

"Last magazine," someone cried.

"Sarn't, my lasgun's dying."

 _Dammit, we're gonna be falling short soon,_ I seethed. No matter how well we did against the Zeke infantry, there was still the fact that we were compounded by our dwindling ammunition supply. "You need to change?" I threw the shouted question at Tsak, who was waiting with a loaded magazine at hand.

"Yeah. Wait, wait." Tsak raised a hand. The timing would have to be dead-on, or Zeke would sense a reduction in the enemy's output of fire, and rapidly exploit it.

"I'll cover you." I waited with my Castra aimed for Lorne to run out of ammunition.

"Okay, change it." The Rekyl fell silent. Yanking the empty magazine out, Tsak slotted the fresh load in, allowing Lorne rack the action. Simultaneously my Castra spoke, lobbing an HE round into a trio of Zekes that had attempted to exploit the Rekyl's silence by rushing forwards. _Try that again, you bastards, you'll get another serving of Whupper._

With the Rekyl back in action I dropped back into cover, depositing the empty casing and searching my bandolier for another. Troubling, I came up empty-handed. All cartridges were now expended. Swearing to myself, I further added, "bloody useless."

"You out of forty?" Borens said.

Nodding dumbly, I put my eye to a hole in the wall and saw, further lowering my spirits, the Chimera was coming up on us. "Lorne, concentrate on that track."

Turning his weapon on the track's sloped front plate, Lorne's rounds bounced ineffectively off the surface. "Not even scratching it."

"I'm out of ammo!"

"Magazine."

"Chargepack's dead."

"Sarn't, I need ammo."

Bombarded with pleas for ammunition, I felt a rising swell of anxiety within my stomach. Fleeing the Highlanders' position, I struggled through various collapsed rooms as cannon fire ripped through the walls. "Who's out of ammo?"

"I am." A grunt cowering with his thumb through the ring of a hand grenade cried.

"Take it." I palmed my Lecta off to him as well as a spare magazine I had in my pocket. _Throne, we're really up the spout now,_ I thought, struggling to keep a lid on my growing fear.

Zeke was crowding the street now, shoving weapons into any windows and slits he could find and filling the openings with lead and lasfire alike, further rolling grenades inside as insurance.

"We're wasted here. Break contact." Exhorting the others to flee out the back of the hab, I kept the Rekyl in place for as long as possible before ordering Lorne and Tsak to retreat. Vaulting a window, I was knocked forwards by several consecutive blasts from the track's battery. Unwilling to close within hand-to-hand range, Zeke was opting to destroy the hab around us rather than try to winkle us out one man at a time.

"Wasn't thinking we were gonna leave you behind, were ya?" the youngest Highlander, Tsak laughed as he pulled me to my feet.

Dizzy, I was half-dragged along with the guns of Zeke biting at our heels. Kept upright by the surprising strength of the lad, I babbled that I was alright, removing my arm from where the Gellen had thrown it over his shoulder.

"Good to know. I woulda dropped you if—" Tsak collapsed with a loud sigh.

Only realising Tsak had fallen after the loud slap of his heels on the road ended, I skidded to a stop, turned and flew back to where his body lay.

"Larn, get out of the street!" Cyrano bellowed.

Rounds spitting through the air and ricocheting off the surfaces around me, I dug into Tsak's twin ammunition pouches, removing the last two Rekyl magazines he carried. Fighting the urge to run, I dug under Tsak's collar and pulled out his identity disks, breaking the cord and pocketing them. There was no time to retrieve his body.

"Come to me!" Cyrano pulled me around a street corner where the others had taken cover.

"Ammo." I tossed Borens the two magazines. "Make it last." I dropped Tsak's disks into Lorne's hand. "He's one o' yours. We're falling back to the CCS. On the double, lads."

Aimo's section, also down in numbers, had already set up in the street outside the CCS. Just about the only thing I cared about then we were no longer in possession of; our anti-tank cannon. Aimo further broke the news of the casualties his section had taken during the contact when I fell down beside him.

"Sorry, James. The roof came down, buried the lot of 'em," said Aimo, "lost the autocannon too."

"There goes our one chance of stopping the track then." I half-smiled, marvelling at our misfortune. Directly behind us were the gates of the CCS. Having taken recent mortar-fire, both gates had been blown off their hinges and now lay out in the street. The walls too were no longer a feasible defence, there being breaches the size of vehicles blown in the architecture, many parts even collapsing inwards, leaving wide open points of ingress for Zeke.

" _Shit_ ," I breathed. Keladi was crouched with groups of wounded men, lying on stretchers and too weak to defend themselves, her M-36 held ready. In preparation for the assault she had tied back her thick hair and looked ready to kill, a far cry from the confused, frightened girl I had found in the ruins.

Gentle clicks of brass on steel as grunts passed out their remaining ammunition to one another. A few hacked desperately at the ground with foldout spades, striving to dig themselves deeper. Silence gripped the CCS. In the surrounding streets, whistles shrieked again and again. Somebody spat on the ground next to me, the dirty globule of spit clinging to the sharp crest of the shell hole like a flea on sewer vermin. A nervous chewing made me rap the man guilty on the side of his cover and glare at him to stop. The thick haze of dust kicked up by the shelling obscured the street ahead, blocking Zeke from view. The tramp of many pairs of boots stalking through the wrecked district and the clamour of the enemy voices could be heard clearly as Zeke closed in for the final assault. Inside the CCS's walls, grunts retaining the use of their hands and arms gripped pistols tightly, kneeling protectively over wounded pals, some tearing off splints and castes to better grip their weapons which were held in blood-stained hands. Those without firearms sat back-to-back, brandishing bayonets, entrenching tools, and any other weapons they could get their hands on.

Bursting out of the hazy gloom, the first Zekes ran headlong into our fire. Jerking my Gerax left and right, I fired right-handed into the reckless mob, seeing my rounds punch through Zekes without body armour, and continue on into bodies behind. Pushing in with such little spacing between them, Zeke was caught up in the eye of our storm, his body buffeted and run through by multiple guns firing. With so many falling, and so many tripping up on them, Zeke looked to be losing his momentum. That was before a panicked scream warned us that Zeke was now rushing us from behind.

Slithering backwards, I pulled Cyrano, Azar, and another grunt along, frantically shoving them into positions where they could cover the western approach to the CCS. "Aimo, shift fire!" I pounded Aimo on the arm. Letting a loose with a groan at the weight of his KP-70, Aimo turned, hauling his stubber with him and dropping the bipod upon the ground next to Azar, picking up the required slack. Both stubbers firing in opposite directions briefly quelled Zeke's plays for the CCS.

"Last magazine!" Borens, now No.2 on the Rekyl, cried.

"Gonna be throwing rocks soon at this rate," Lorne snarled, working the charging handle.

"Nah, we're gonna win this, lads," I shouted. Aimo's questioning look made me feel guilty at offering such a bold prediction. Of course, he knew I was lying through my teeth. But was else was I supposed to say?

Zeke's reappearance was answered by a considerably lighter volume of fire. As if sensing we were on the verge of total annihilation, Zeke renewed his assault. The final stutter of the Rekyl, and coincidental jamming of Aimo's weapon, brought heads whirling in my direction. Without any idea of what to do next, I waved my arm madly. "Back. Back into the buildings. Back!"

Any remaining semblance of order crumbled then when individuals, out for themselves, tore from cover, their flight pursued by Zeke's roving bursts.

"Aah. Think this one's binned." Aimo rolled his locked-up KP-70 down the slope of the shell hole, picking up a Vintok left by a fleeing grunt. "How about we rush 'em? You and me. We can take 'em."

"I suddenly decided I like life!" I replied from the opposite side of the hole, still firing at the Zekes, stubbornly refusing to withdraw. "I want Izuru too."

"Yes, mate!" Aimo's reply was half-hysterical laughter, half-roar of fury. "That all you got?" he howled, emptying his carbine's entire magazine in a few seconds flat.

Fiddling with a pull-cord of my single stick grenade, I gave it a gentle upwards toss – Zeke was that close – and dived back down, hauling Aimo along by the back of his webbing. "We're done here. Pull out."

Thundering past the broken gates, the loud whiz of rounds distorting the heavy air around us, I caught sight of the Chimera bursting through a half-collapsed wall at the end of the street. Hauling itself around in a shower of dust ground up under its treads, the track rolled slowly along the street in our direction. Forgetting the others, I pointed Keladi, who was snapping off shots with her M-36, at Zeke. "Keladi, get out of here!"

Paying no attention, Keladi continued to fire one-handed, using the other to pull stretchers out of Zeke's line of fire, behind the cover of a circular ornamental plinth. Whatever it had depicted beforehand, the inscription was now lost, as were the stones figures standing atop it.

"Keladi, take cover." Gripping the back of her greatcoat, I pulled her out of the line of fire, forcing her head down. "Aimo, I need you to—"

Aimo had vanished. Cursing, I cupped my hands and called Aimo's name, feeling chips of stone skim off my helmet. Lifting my Gerax up, I rested it upon the stone plinth, the weapon canted slightly, and fired back. Only a handful of pistols and other small-arms were firing now. A few brave grunts, staying in the open, determined to protect their comrades, shot at any charging Zekes with only sidearms. Seeing their quarry flagging, Zeke began pouring through the gaps in the wall, bayonet-tipped rifles bobbing. Unable to prevent them from overrunning the wounded, the few grunts, either around me, or back in the cover of the CCS, shot indiscriminately. In desperation I let fly on automatic, the Gerax shaking uncontrollably. Colourful oaths were thrown Zeke's way when he set about the wounded with bayonets, jabbing bodies in a frenzy. Screams of rage, egging the enemy to come and get stuck in with men that fought back, were let off in equal measure.

At the sighting of the Chimera outside the gates, I knew we were lost. "RUN!" I bellowed. With every man that was able to move under his own power making for the open doors leading inside the CCS, I stayed a little longer, running through the remainder of my magazine. "Keladi, move!" When the girl would not budge, I took the back of her collar and prepared to drag her back. "C'mon, lass, let's go."

Keladi's head lolled back, the M-36 falling from her hands.

"Shit it," I spat.

Leaving the Gerax and heavy bandolier, I pulled Keladi onto my shoulders and tottered over to the open door to where Cyrano, Gale, and Azar were shouting and waving to me.

"Get in here!" Spit flew from Gale's mouth as he kicked one side of the door shut, Cyrano quickly slamming the other. "C'mon, board it up."

"Major! Anyone seen the major?" I set Keladi down upon an empty stretcher underneath the stairs. Slamming my fist upon my knee, I remembered that Serreck had left with a convoy of wounded. "Need help here."

"James, we need you out the front," Cyrano called.

"We're out of ammo." Gale gasped. "Poor boy didn't deserve this." His attention was on Scurm who was sitting against a wall with a bloody stain on shoulder. Olen Azar, looking frightened, had a dirty dressing pressed firmly against Scurm's shoulder.

"Where's Aimo?" I cast about for Aimo's face amongst those that had made it inside the muncip building. "Come on, Aimo. Speak up."

"Sorry, James." Cyrano shook his head.

 _He was right there beside me._

"Get down!" The cry went up right before the Chimera's autocannon fired on us. Splinters flying everywhere, we could only huddle as low to the floor as possible. It was the longest barrage yet. Now that Zeke had us surrounded and trapped, he could demolish the building floor by floor, burying us dead or alive.

"Oi, something's happening!" somebody wailed.

Unclasping my holster, I drew my Moses and waited for the incoming fusillade that would demolish the door. Howls of men going mad over the noise drew a scream from my own lungs. A hand, scrabbling around, found mine and held on tightly. But instead of the doors bursting inwards, a confused chattering by Zeke outside was cut short by a crunch of steel treads upon gravel. The _thump-thump-thump_ of the autocannon was punctuated by the rattle of the other weapons, seemingly all having a mind of their own. Listening to the unfolding chaos outside, I could only guess what was happening. A burst of green light, pouring through the cracks in the walls after the strange minute, heralded a peculiar silence.

"Stay down." Motioning Cyrano to stay where he was, I stepped cautiously over the grunts, avoiding treading on arms and legs as I made my way over to the still-intact doors. Putting my eye to a crack, I paled, my throat tightening. In disbelief I opened one of the doors, deaf to the protests, and stepped outside. Stunned at what had been a near-total walkover for Zeke, I turned around in slow circles, slightly dizzy at the extent of the carnage wrought upon Zeke by the unseen menace. The track was lying on its side, its main battery crumpled. Every single Zeke not already wasted by us, had been utterly obliterated; vaporised a more appropriate word. Mostly it was just smoking rags left behind. The scene had played out in the same manner as it had on the canal, with the Zeke mechanised unit tossed around like ragdolls. _Kora did this. Or whatever that thing with Kora's face was did this._

Numbed, puppet-like men ventured from the building, staring blankly at the remains of ours and theirs, in many cases unable to tell who was who. Snapping out of the shock, I got Cyrano to organise a burial detail quickly before anyone could wander off or start to brood upon our losses.

Retrieving my Gerax from where Keladi had fallen, I was drawn to a whistle that Cyrano gave.

"Found Aimo."

Rushing over, I helped Cyrano drag Aimo out from underneath two bodies, one Zeke, and one of ours. "Aw, mate, I was worried sick." Taking Aimo's shoulder's I rested my forehead against his.

"Nah, worry ye not, pal. I'm a survivor," Aimo panted. "I wondered why it went all dark there…"

I met Cyrano's worried eyes. "Just got some muck on you. Should wash off in a jiffy." Hoping to god I was wrong, I poured water down Aimo's forehead, gently wiping his face clean with Cyrano's handkerchief. "Got something in your eye there." Biting down on the grief, I shook my head when it would not wash off.

"Can you get it out?" Aimo asked, wincing when he tried to touch the broken mess of bloody skin where his eyes were.

"Nah. Nah, prob'ly not no." Gritting my teeth gently, I suppressed a little sob.

"God-Emperor." Cyrano's eyes were wet.

Aimo was blind.

Trudging back inside the CCS I saw a saddened Gale and Azar keeping the dying Scurm company. A blanket now covered Keladi up to her chin.

An orderly crouched beside her turned to me. "She's dead, mate."

 _No, no, how can she be dead? If she is dead then the war is wrong_.

Those naïve words I had spoken when Erkki had bought his farm, I now spoke again. They almost sounded comical now. _That's it, I've failed_. Wanting to be overcome with grief, I instead could feel only an acute glumness. Had I lost all empathy? If so then where had it gone?

Removing the spirit stone from where it hung around her neck, I ordered Keladi to be carried outside and left in a space that was clear of bodies. Coming to an understanding that Keladi had gone, I ran a cold, examiner's eye over the wound on her neck. Far worse on the front than it was on the back, I tutted, sighing when it came clear that somebody had shot her from behind. I knew an exit wound from an entry wound and could tell that it was all an accident. Some grunt had fired wildly, and that was that.

Hanging around for a while outside, I kept an eye out for Kora, wondering why she had done it, why she was on Cadia, and why she was different to before. My pondering was brought to an end when, hours after the attack, a long figure glided from the swirling dust. It was no being in a scaled, shining bodysuit and cape, but a bedraggled, slim woman in torn, black fatigues. Dimly registering Izuru approaching the ruin of the CCS, I stayed sitting against a pile of rubble, waiting for her to find Keladi.

Nothing at all was said between us. At first Izuru did not recognise Keladi, pausing to look down upon the strange, red-haired girl lying underneath the blanket with the mildest curiosity then glancing with aroused suspicion around the faces of the surviving grunts. Deciding to break it to her as gently as possible, I got to my feet wearily and made my way over to Izuru. I could not bear to look her in the eye when I handed over Keladi's spirit stone, and felt a deep, gut-wrenching shame that it had happened on my watch. Not a single trace of grief played across Izuru's grimy face when she accepted the stone, assuming a coldly aloof demeanour; keeping a close guard on her emotions. Izuru refused to look at me, having eyes only for Keladi. The last I saw of Izuru for a while was her sinking to her knees beside her surrogate sister right before I stepped through the gate and walked away down the street.


	39. Chapter 38

**Kasr Kraf Airbase, Solarus District, 11:09**

Distracted by the bomber formation coming in from the west, the few Hyperios batteries dotted around the airbase were too slow to deal with the three Avengers that had snuck up from the east through the massive cloud, their radar in the process of tracking the bombers rather than casting out for other intruders. Such a dire case of tunnel-vision resorted in the enemy having free reign in the skies over the airbase. Of friendly aircraft, there was no sign.

"Hell-fire. She's taken a pounding." Captain Dalmut Meynell lowered his naval-issue glasses after observing the burning Medicae transport receive hits from the Avenger's bombs and rockets.

"How many is that now, Captain?" Colonel Willem Venant, somewhat more agitated by the day's proceedings than his naval counterpart, asked.

"Too many today, Colonel." Meynell winced as their bunker on the north-east corner of the airbase was shaken as the bombers began dropping their payloads. With barely an hour passing between raids, the evacuation had slowed to a crawl.

"Are there any of our ships on approach?" Venant fired a second question Meynell did not have an immediate answer to. The Imperial Logistics Corps officer was currently the senior Guard officer supervising the evacuation and had precisely zero experience in anything other than matters concerning logistics, as befitting his branch of service. Captain Meynell, having been shuttled down from the destroyer Wolfhound earlier in the morning, had come 'ashore' leading a party of eight other officers and 160 ratings and communications staff, setting up in an anti-aircraft bunker that had a grandstand view of the airbase. Meynell's words to his shore party when he had first seen the colossal body of men awaiting retrieval were, 'a daunting endeavour presents itself, and we shall arise to meet it head-on.' Such a bold declaration, made in the wee hours, had spurred the naval personnel to head out to the disorganised masses and begin figuring out a plan to lift as many men in as short a time period as was humanly possible. Helpfully the multitude of servicemen and women – Cadian or otherwise – had kept to reasonably well-ordered queues, permitting the Navy to mark landing zones, either on bombed-scarred runways, or on the grassy verges next to the tarmac. That was many hours ago. During that time, only one Medicae ship had come into berth.

"Captain, is there anything happening out there?" Venant repeated, in the wake of the high-pitched whistling of the falling bombs, and the stamp of high-explosive across the base.

"Nothing at all!" Meynell, his temper rising over the logistics colonel's questions, shouted. "I haven't had a ship for four hours. There's Emperor-knows how many waiting in orbit."

Turning to a signals rating, Meynell ordered him to transmit a message to Admiral Quarren. "Senior Naval Officer Kasr Kraf to Lord Admiral Battlefleet Cadia. Evacuation postponed until twenty-two hundred hours. Zeke playing hymns too loudly for any further activity."

"That bad, Captain?" Venant said, glassing the now-derelict Medicae transport as its fires were rushed to be tended. Periodic explosions kept going off in the interior, driving away the crew of fire attendants. Their thin hoses, jetting out a grey foam, were having little effect on the blaze.

"Can't let it go on," Meynell muttered. He did not say anything aloud, lest it effect morale, but the last six days had been absolute hell on the fleet. 52 of the battlefleet's 81 destroyers had been put out of commission, either scuttled from damage sustained, or outright blown to smithereens by the numerically superior enemy. Of the 48 cruisers, 11 heavies and 17 light cruisers were right-offs. 7 of the fleet's precious 12 battleships had also been lost. Of the two destroyers Quarren had diverted to help with the evacuation, Icarus had had her back broken by a Nova Cannon fired from long-range by a Chaos capital ship, and Basilisk, after taking a plasma torpedo amidships, was being towed back through the Warp to the orbital dockyards at Belis Corona. No other destroyers were standing-by to take on transports, and without a warp drive and a navigator the transports were stranded in the system.

Further lowering Meynell's spirits was the arrival of a Cadian general. It was not the lord castellan, rather a younger, bull-chested man in his late forties. "Good day, Captain. Colonel." The major general swiped his beret from his head and batted the dirt off. "Haven't had the pleasure, Captain. I'm Major General Rebbeck, One Corps."

"Dalmut Meynell, sir." Meynell shook Rebbeck's meaty hand.

"Has the rear admiral departed?" Rebbeck was talking about Oslam Seger, whose former headquarters were now being used by Creed.

Meynell had not been present but he had heard about the destruction of the destroyer Kosper, Rear Admiral Seger's flagship. It had gone down with all hands. "I wasn't present to see the rear admiral off, sir. I only arrived seven hours ago." Meynell further briefed Rebbeck on the status of the evacuation, answering – or trying to give sensible-sounding answers to Rebbeck's questions. Then it was his turn to consult Rebbeck on the battles going on away from the airbase.

"Pardon me, General, you say the enemy has reached the inner perimeter?" Meynell balked that the enemy might be as little as three kilometres north of the airbase, putting it well within range of even the lightest field guns.

"I didn't say that, Captain. The lord castellan himself is fortifying the inner perimeter from his command post within Bastion One. The enemy is still somewhere further north in the Aptus district. Don't concern yourself with Imperial Guard affairs, Captain. General Creed is relying on you to make something of this shambles."

Withheld from entering the bunker by one of Rebbeck's bodyguards, a major wearing the insignia of the Medicae Corps called out to the officers. "Excuse me, sir?"

"What is it?" Rebbeck, annoyed at the interruption, waved the major inside. "Let him in."

"Sir, Major Fillip Serreck. I've come from a casualty station in the Aptus district."

"Aptus district? I wasn't aware they were still operating up there."

"We're not, sir. I have shut down the operating theatre due to a lack of power. There is also no food, and I am very low on medical supplies. Personally, I had thought you had forgotten about us…"

"Watch yourself, Major," Rebbeck snapped. Then, in a softer tone, he added, "please, have a seat. Now, I am not wholly unsympathetic to your cause. But there is a time factor that must be respected, as well as resources we have at hand. Although we are prioritising fit men, there is also room for walking wounded—"

"Sir, I have 300 patients still awaiting transportation at the CCS. Those I have not already sent down are confined to stretchers and cannot walk. I have – I have brought five ambulance-loads down this morning. Altogether we can manage only twenty men each time."

"Show me on the map where you are, Major." Rebbeck shifted papers from a map showing Kraf's districts.

"Aptus district muncip building, sir." Serreck pointed at the large block-like shape well to the north of the inner perimeter. "Zeke was still some distance away when I left earlier this morning. There was a platoon-sized unit digging in to defend the grounds but I'm not sure if they are still there."

"I see. Alright, I shall signal a medicae ship. I wouldn't hold out your hopes, Major. The last medicae vessel that came in is out there on the tarmac, burning."

"But what of our air corps, sir? Zeke does not control the skies, does he?"

"Not you concern, Major. Your priority is wounded. Mine are able-bodied men. It is all about priorities at the moment. Now, return to your station and prepare as many men as you can for transport. I shall send a rider for you when the ship is sighted. Don't expect him before twenty-two hundred."

"Thank you, sir." Serreck shook Rebbeck's hand and left.

"Are there still medicae ships waiting in orbit?" Rebbeck asked Meynell. The latter had been receiving half-hourly updates from the fleet and was better informed on the situation in space. Vice-verse with Rebbeck

"Seven. Four Carrack-Class transports and three Tarask Merchantmen."

"Any that can come down from orbit?"

"With today's losses, sir. None."

"Puts us a darker shade on things, doesn't it, Captain?"

"Indeed it does, sir," Meynell replied dryly. "I suppose all we can do now is wait for nightfall. Frustrating."

* * *

 **12th Casualty Clearing Station, Aptus District, 11:58**

Ceasing my aimless wanderings, I trudged back in the direction of the CCS, a cold knot of fear worked tight inside my stomach over anticipation of explaining to Izuru about why she had found Keladi lying dead whilst she had been under my protection. I was deathly afraid of what Izuru might do because I had broken my promise to her, rightly fearing for my close friends' lives in case Izuru turned on them instead of me. It was what kept me away from the CCS. I had no consoling words to offer her, no teary apology to babble. I did not know what to say to her except sorry. But even then, one wrong word might set her off.

Approaching the wrecked gates, I stepped over the Zeke corpses we had wasted. Already flies were beginning to buzz around, landing inside orifices and on eyeballs. During my absence the Zekes that had been cut down charging the CCS were now all heaped into one pile at the south-east corner of the wall. Our KIAs, significantly less but still numerous, were laid out in rows upon flattened tents. Regardless of affiliation the dead would soon start to smell. But it appeared that nobody had felt like digging graves.

Stepping past the Zeke track – still lying untouched on its side – I glanced down at the ground at my feet and saw my boots had left a dark, sticky trail of blood. There was so much of the stuff that it was still spreading and had yet to sink into the ground. The taste of it was in the air, clinging to the back of my throat; coppery and unpleasant. To add to the grim atmosphere was the acrid whiff of propellant and dry dust that clung to everything: uniforms, skin, hair. Tiny fires had sprung up too, the flames crackling in the hot wind that rushed through the shattered front windows of the muncip building, howling through the rooms like restless spirits.

Cyrano, Gale, and Herle were sitting with Aimo who now wore a bandage around his eyes. I said nothing when I joined them, merely sitting down cross-legged and resting my Gerax in my lap.

"Wondered when you'd be back," Aimo said aloud.

Under normal circumstances that would have been perplexing, inciting me to inquire how exactly Aimo knew it was me. But right then I did not feel like asking questions, or really saying anything.

"She left with the girl a short while ago. We haven't seen her since," Cyrano said quietly. "We – we did not bother her at all, nor did she say anything."

"You'd keep your dignity too if you was all alone among strangers," said Aimo. "Dignified was how she was."

"Headcount?" I asked, uninterested in what manner Izuru would conduct her affairs now that her mission had failed on all accounts.

With Aimo down, Cyrano had had to step up. "Fourteen able-bodied, including us. Nineteen dead, and Emperor knows how many more wounded there are here."

"We did all we could." Aimo shrugged.

"Yeah, but did everyone else?" Gale was looking at the large quantity of small-arms taken from Zeke, piled up underneath the CCS's front windows. He raised his head sharply when he saw Olen Azar round on a Gerax Jaeger who had taken shelter inside the CCS. "Hang on. I've got this."

"Uh-oh. Got what?" Aimo pivoted around to the source of the noise.

 _Trust Azar to survive._ I scowled disdainfully at the sight of the wiry little cook ranting angrily at the helmeted Gerax. The other two cooks I had not known but they could not have been worse than him.

"…Trying to swipe himself a bit o' buckshee kit here, Sergeant," Azar exclaimed to Gale, forcefully pushing the Gerax away from the weapons and gear. "No. Fuck you! You were hiding inside the cellar when we were getting cut up by Zeke. You don't deserve any of this."

In an equally foul temperament, the Gerax raised a finger threateningly. "Were it not for our delaying action, you would have been facing ten tracks, not one! We fought through the streets all morning. When our anti-tank ran out, we charged the enemy armour with rifles and bayonets. Did you do the same? Or did you turn and bolt?"

A scuffle ensued, whereupon Azar's head quickly became locked underneath the Gerax's armpit. Gale waded in and broke the two apart, holding them at arm's length with a fierce warning glare at Azar.

"Want me to send him on his way, James?" Gale asked, "'cause he sure don't deserve any of this stuff."

"What's your name?" I recognised the man whose rifle I had taken for myself. "C'mon, out with it."

Shaking off Gale's hand, the Gerax said hotly, "Roland Velikye. Senior private."

"There more of you here?"

"Down in the cellar, yes."

"Go in there and bring 'em all up. I want you lot out."

Stamping away up the steps, Velikye disappeared inside. Gale would set Azar on the straight and narrow. He was probably the only man whom Azar respected; if it was even respect that kept him in line.

"Are you daft? Picking a fight with a prize-fighter like that," Gale hissed. "There'll be fizzers once we get back in the kitchen. You understand me, Private?"

Azar grunted something that passed for an acknowledgment, even if it had insubordinate undertones.

The Gerax Jaegers – five of them – tramped up from the cellar and left the CCS' grounds, bearing the brunt of the baleful stares the few Cannon grunts and the odds and sods that remained gave them. Showing no interest in them as well, I took in the sizeable collection of weaponry and ammunition recovered from Zeke. The latter case – our ammunition deficit – was no longer a concern. Zeke had provided us with KAs, Vintoks, Kantraels, Triplexes, stubbers, machine pistols, grenades. Everything a modern army needed to wipe the imperial smear out of existence.

"Close-run thing," Callum Lorne muttered nearby, heaving a belt-fed stubber from the pile, taking it as a replacement for his Rekyl. He and Borens had recovered Tsak's body from the street which now lay with the rest of our dead. Just about everyone had lost someone, I realised.

Lifting up a leather, blood-stained bandolier of forty-millimetre, I said, "we had the bugger today."

I should mention that many of the weapons were marked with flecks of blood, especially so with the many blade and spike bayonets which were still clamped over muzzles. Knowing that they had been used on wounded men stirred within me a feeling of revulsion.

"Lorne. I want these things removed and buried. Find some water and clean the worst of the muck off these guns. We'll be needing 'em."

Not seeing any reason why he shouldn't comply, Lorne, along with Borens, assembled a party and got to work with removing the Zeke bayonets and burying them. The exercise was intended to reinvigorate a feeling of enmity towards Zeke, whom I hoped would give us some respite now that his vanguard was no more. Keeping the grunts busy would prevent their body from slacking and their minds from dwelling on previous events. It was with this mentality that I asked the idle Cyrano, Gale, and Herle to assist in digging proper graves for the dead, also dragging other idlers over and putting shovels in their hands. If the CCS's staff had given patients a proper burial service then so would we.

The Guard chaplain, a grey-haired man in his forties, was summoned in the early afternoon. In a practised manner, he read the names of the dead as each was deposited into the grave, adding, "may the blessed light of the God-Emperor of Mankind guide his soul through the darkness. Let him feast now in His halls, content that he, like all men and women before him, died doing his sacred duty. The Emperor protects."

We all made the sign of the Aquila as earth was tossed onto the bodies, gradually covering them over until all that was left was a darker patch of bare ground. This was marked, as all nearby graves were, with a simple cross. On it was placed a Cadian infantry helmet. This last gesture was performed by the chaplain's assistant, evidently ignorant of the fact that none of the dead were Cadians. I corrected his error, prying the Cadian cover off the cross and tossing it away contemptibly. Lorne's words I was now beginning to understand. It was important for onlookers to see that we were not Cadians, leading me to balance a bare ceramite cover on the cross and mark the grave with a .338 Rifle as opposed to an M-36. With the service over, I squatted beside the grave, staring away into space as grunts trickled away in dribs and drabs. _So many good people wasted. And for what?_

* * *

Standing in the centre of the Ynnari Council chamber upon a raised dais, Izuru, statuesque, awaited condemnation from the gathered representatives. Many dozens strong, the council included beings from major craftworlds: Biel-Tan, Ulthwé, Iyanden, and Altansar. Each representative proudly wearing their homeworld's colours. Harlequins, in their gaudy, loud attire were also present, as were the Fallen; they alone were clad in black. Such was the intensity of the hovering light spheres, projecting their warmth down onto Izuru's dais, the faces of the council were shrouded, with only the barest features visible. The first to speak out, did so in a cold, clear voice.

"For the loss of…"

"Saeros. Derin," said another council member.

"For the murder of…"

"Human civilians," a third said.

"For the slaughter of…"

"Princess Saarania."

"I condemn thee to a life of solitude. Walk the path of the outcast forever more."

"… _No_ ," Izuru whispered.

"Anon Brightfire and his Black Guardians. Sacrificed without purpose. Now forgotten by the very beings they had sworn to protect."

Memories of Grendel and Nemesis Tessera tumbled freely over one another, filling Izuru's heart with remorse. _They knew the fate that might befall them_. _It is the fate of all who bears arms against the enemies of the Eldar._

"Avele Swifteye. _Bechareth_. A spirit on the wind."

"I am sorry."

"Keladi Lethidia. You let her die. Your one and only commitment and you failed her." The words were dripping in acid, each one a bullet wound to the gut. "That is example enough of your inadequacy, Round-Ear."

Her composure fracturing, Izuru's lip quivered. "Please stop."

The voices began again, now overlapping with one another and echoing. "Unfit to lead."

"Your crimes are inexcusable."

"Justice must be served."

"An example must be made."

"Return to Sha'eil, bastard of Iyanden."

"Mother?"

"My children!" Izuru gasped. On her knees, she extended her arms, begging her two beautiful boys to run to her. "Come to me. Come to me!"

"Unfit for motherhood." Saarania appeared, smiling warmly at the children, inviting them to run to her. With Ilic and Korsarro in her embrace, Saarania's smile turned to a sneer. "All you fought for came to nothing. The children are mine."

"NO!" Izuru screamed, throwing herself forwards, her fists pounding on the ground, tears of anguish falling freely. Keladi lay just out of arm's reach, her pale hands folded across her breast. Her eyes were wide open, grey and devoid of life.

"Wassup with you?" James's hand touched her shoulder. "Hey, I don't want to see you all worked up. C'mon, stand up. On your feet." Firmly but without forcing, James helped Izuru regain her feet. "Where d'you get off to? I was worried 'bout you."

"I buried Keladi, and then I came up here." Her mind returning to reality, Izuru cast about the sparse hab dorm where she had taken refuge. Keladi had gone. "There was nowhere else to go."

"Okay, siddown. It's alright." Taking Izuru's arm, James guided her over to one of the bunks and sat down next to her. "Well, say something, Izuru."

Shaking her head, Izuru touched James's arm, running her hand down the sleeve to the cuff. Tugging the thin cotton back she took his wrist and stroked the soft patch of skin above a pair of blue veins with her thumb. "I don't ever want to be alone again," she murmured.

"No." Leaning over, James took Izuru in his embrace. "You won't. You won't."

Closing her eyes, Izuru gave a stifled whimper, her face buried in James's shoulder. "I'm sorry, James."

"Sssh," James whispered soothingly. "It's alright."

The warmth from another body brought a feeling of intense affection swelling within her. Starved of intimacy for so long, Izuru clung to James for a while, refusing to let go. When, finally, they parted, Izuru sought James's eyes. They however were fixed upon the buttons on her jacket. Briefly wondering why James would not look at her, Izuru cocked her head to one side, caressing his pale face with her fingertips.

"I need you." James let Izuru take his hand and place it between the twin hills on her chest, feeling the quickening thud of her heartbeat. Both began pulling at each other's jackets, undoing buttons and casting both away. _Is this his first time?_ Izuru wondered. James seemed confident, far more than she had expected him to be at his age.

"Is something the matter?" Izuru asked, when James avoided her as she leant forwards to kiss him.

James looked at her blankly. "No, nothing's the matter. Here." Wrapping his arms around Izuru, James pressed his nose into her shoulder. Lifting up a corner of her t-shirt, he felt her bare skin, moving his hands up her back. Shuffling back far enough for her to lie down, Izuru fiddled with her boots, casting them and her trousers off, leaving only a pair of shorts in place. Patiently she waited for James, taking him in her arms when he had removed his own boots and trousers.

"Keladi enjoyed it," he said, smiling down at Izuru.

"…Keladi?"

"Two scored in one day."

"Keladi?" Gazing in horror at James lying on top of her, Izuru pushed him away and wriggled out from underneath him. That smirk was still on his face. "Who are you?"

"Who d'you want me to be?" James pressed himself against her again, his fingers touching her lips. Aghast, Izuru batted James's hand away but again he touched her lips, pressing her cheeks in between his thumb and fingers. Prying his hand off, Izuru twisted his wrist back, holding it in place firmly. "This is not you, James Larn," she growled.

Catching her off-guard, James laughed in her face, long and loud. It was in that moment his face changed to that of the Inquisitor's. Seeing his smug, arrogant face sent Izuru's anger spiralling out of control. Swinging her fist, she hit the Inquisitor in his right temple with sufficient force to fracture his skull. He just laughed. Blind to the rage that had her in its embrace, Izuru threw him to the floor then got ahold of his hair. Using it to keep his head in place, Izuru beat him with slow, hard jabs.

"SHE WAS NOT. YOURS. TO HAVE!" Izuru bellowed, landing a blow each time she spoke. Taking the bloody, shattered face in her hands, Izuru rammed the back of the skull against the hard floor again and again until she heard a sickening crunch of bone caving inwards. "HUMAN BASTARD!" she cried, her voice hoarse from her tirade.

Inexplicably, James's lifeless face gazed up at her. Dark blood, pooling underneath his head, spread outwards towards Izuru's knees. Frozen, staring at the body, seemingly in a trance, Izuru's mind made a sluggish attempt to overcome the blank it had drawn. _What have I done?_

"What have I done?" she said in a monotone. Her lips had frozen and were fast drying out. Still the blood spread outwards. Languidly, Izuru pulled herself away from the widening pool, climbing onto the bunk and sitting there in a daze. A strange stickiness was on her hands. Turning them outwards, Izuru caught her breath sharply when both palms and fingers were bright with human blood. Beginning to tremble, Izuru felt her heartbeat thump loudly in her ears. Wiping her hands down on the grey mattress, Izuru fell into a frenzy when the blood stayed coated on her skin. Soon the mattress was stained dark, bloody all over. Groaning, Izuru clasped her hands around her knees, letting out a loud sob of grief. Nearly choking on tears, she whimpered and moaned, wiping her running nose with the back of her hand. Seeing the entire floorspace was now slick with blood, Izuru looked at James' body, now a ghostly white shell of skin, muscle, and bone. Tearing her eyes away, she pressed both hands against the mattress. Something cold and metallic lay beside her. It was James's Moses. _Forgive me, Father_. Izuru picked up the weapon and put it to her head, squeezing her eyes shut as she pulled the trigger.

The sensation of her heart skipping a beat shocked Izuru's senses into awakening her. Sitting scrunched up on the bunk and pressed into a corner, Izuru felt the sweat soaking through the back of her t-shirt, making it stick to the wall behind her. _Keladi, James, I am so sorry_. Again the tears came, running in streams down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. Frightened at seeing the space on the floor where James had lain, Izuru shivered when she glanced over. Nothing lay there, no trace of body, and not a single fleck of blood; only her jacket, trousers and boots. Removing her hand from where it had been clasping her knees together, Izuru saw the dirt underneath her fingernails. Again, no blood. _It was only a nightmare_ , Izuru said to herself, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. _Asuryan, lend me your guidance, for now I am truly lost_.

* * *

It was with an ill grace that the worn-out grunts, after burying their dead, turned to the Zekes and set about digging a pit. Biting down upon the harsh rebuke I had on the tip of my tongue when complaints at blisters began to surface, I doggedly hacked at the earth with a pick, ignoring the burning sensation in my arms and right shoulder. No such reverence was paid to Zeke. He was thrown into the shallow pit, one by one, and left there. I recalled the mass graves at Broucheroc, and the lime sprinkled upon the bodies to mask their scent. At Kraf we had no lime. Not that it stopped Lorne from sprinkling his own scent on the corpses.

"Piss on it, Zeke," he chuckled, letting fly with a long stream of pale urine, walking it up and down the bodies.

"Knock it off, ya pillock." I thrust a shovel at the Highlander. "Give us a hand 'ere."

With the grave refilled, scores of tired, aching grunts cast aside shovels and picks and fell out. It was during the lull in the aftermath that I decided to go and find Izuru; or rather it was Aimo's nudging that pressured me into seeking her out.

"Anything happening?" Aimo asked.

"Nothing." Cyrano, sitting behind Aimo, patted his shoulder. "Don't worry about it, my friend."

"Sorry 'bout this, lads. Hate not being able to muck in with you. Felt like I really let the side down," Aimo said remorsefully, tugging at the bandage covering his face.

"No, don't think like that. You gave it your all. It is all anyone can ever give. Don't apologise."

"You there too, James?"

"Right here, pal." I plonked myself beside Aimo and put an arm around his shoulders. "We're always here."

"She – Izuru told me I'd never see my daughter's face," Aimo whispered.

"Well she's wrong. It's straight down to the ships for you, and a quick flight to Haven. I bet her and her'll be there the moment you step off." I squeezed Aimo's shoulders. "You won. You beat Zeke, and now you're going home."

"I'll go home when we all go home. Can't be running out on you scumbags."

"Nah, tough titty, mate. I tell you what, if you can guess how many fingers I'm holding up, you can stay," I said, holding up four fingers.

"One?"

"Wrong."

Snorting, Aimo's shoulders slumped despondently. Picking at a handful of stones, he asked, "have you seen her?"

"No."

"Go find her."

"Number ten. She's wants to be alone. Why else did she bugger off with Keladi?"

"What was that you said, back in the battle? I want—"

"Oi, don't. Aimo, you bloody know all of us do things – say things – in a contact we don't normally do. Most of all me. If I could take it back, I would."

"Well, I reckon she's prob'ly crying her eyes out somewhere. You need to go and apologise. Say sorry for Keladi. Go on, chum."

"Okay, alright." I nodded half-heartedly. "Cyrano, you're in charge."

"Where you going?" Cyrano picked up his M-36 and made to follow me.

"Check the streets round here for Zeke," I said, slotting a cartridge into the breech of my Castra. The full bandolier I wore over my Cadian body armour still bore traces of Zeke blood.

"Yeah…" Gale got to his feet.

"Just Cyrano. Gale, hold everything down here."

Having not the faintest idea where Izuru might be, I began scouring the streets around the CCS. Wary of holdout pockets of Zeke, Cyrano and I kept apart, kept low, and kept moving. With so many destroyed buildings around it became difficult to discern when a street began and ended, the neat zig-zag pattern having been buried entirely under collapsed walls. If Zeke was nearby then he was being very discreet about it; not his usual SOP.

"We should go back," Cyrano said, after an hour's fruitless searching. "She will be where we will not find her. Let us await her return." No fool, Cyrano had guessed the reason for the search through the streets the moment I had announced that I was heading out.

"You didn't need to come," I said.

"You didn't need to leave. Izuru would have come back."

"I reckon she's done here. I'm done here too. Us lot gotta go our separate ways now."

Slinging my Gerax, I followed Cyrano back to the CCS. That was that then. Izuru was gone and, likely or not, harbouring a rekindled and everlasting hatred of me.

On our return, I sought out the Scribe. "Got a good story coming along there?" I asked, indicting the sheaf of notes Herle had taken.

"Someone's got to write it."

"I need to do some writing o' my own now. Can I have some of your paper?"

"'Kay." Herle ripped a small section from his notebook and gave it to me along with a pencil. "I'm sorry about the girl."

"Not your fault. Blame's all mine. You did good today, Joe. Cheers."

Splitting from the group, I wandered into the entrance hall of the hab opposite the CCS and headed upstairs to find a tap. I felt my skin itching underneath my shirt and trousers, reminding me that I was long overdue a scrub, as was every other man at the CCS.

 _No power_. I flicked a switch at the end of the first-floor corridor. It had been exactly the same when I had brought Keladi up. Keladi, so young and full of life. Now dead and buried by Izuru. Trying not be sentimental, I acknowledged that Keladi was taken far too soon. _Why didn't you stay up here?_ I sighed, producing a small torch I had taken from Zeke and playing the yellow beam down the length of the corridor. Would Izuru have sensed Keladi's recent presence, like a dog pursuing a scent? The thought danced tantalising before me. Calling out softly, I tried the first wheel, opening up the room and shining the torch in. "Izuru?"

Nothing. The dorm was bare. The mattresses untouched and cold. Shutting the door behind me, I tried the other doors. With privacy non-existent on Cadia, of course there would be no locks on anything. It also appeared that the washrooms and eating facilities were shared. Since Cadia was a nation of soldiers, they would have to share everything. Coming from a rural background, I found such overt militarism disagreeable. What was it like being brought up in the shadow of the Eye of Terror, knowing that Chaos resided almost on the doorstep? Every waking moment of your life devoted to soldiering, not knowing when Zeke or Nathaniel would launch an attack on your home, whether the day you woke up on would be your last.

Poised with my hand upon a door mechanism, I realised I wanted out of the service before it made me a soldier forever. I wanted to be away from Cadia and the constant war I had been involved in since the clerical error had dumped my company at Broucheroc. There was a limit to how much a man could take which, admittedly, varied between individuals. After the skirmish in the streets and the fight for the muncip building, I felt that I was reaching my limit, and I wanted out.

"Izuru?" I called for the umpteenth time. "Izuru, you there?"

Beginning to tire of the search, I passed the beam around the room lazily, quickly shining it over the bunks, expecting to come up empty-handed once more. This time however, I did not.

"Izuru?" I fixed the torch beam on a figure sitting in the far corner of the room on a lower bunk. Izuru's knees were drawn up to her chin, obscuring her face from view. She was clad in only shorts and t-shirt, with the latter soaked in sweat. Her trousers, jacket, and boots lay scattered across the floor in crumpled piles.

"Izuru." Leaning my Gerax against the wall, I took a cautious step towards her, wary of what she might do. "Look at me."

Keeping the light on her, I watched as Izuru lifted her face up from behind her knees. Two bright, shining tracks ran down her grimy face, the tears cutting a path through the muck to drip off her chin and down her front. Grey bags had formed underneath Izuru's wet eyes. Her brow was deeply furrowed with many lines crossing it. Her nose was red and sore. Where normally she kept her hair in a tight bun, it had now exploded outwards in a thick mess over her shoulders and down her back. Blinking rapidly in the light, Izuru's chin quivered. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"…You're sorry?" Appalled at what I was hearing, I moved closer. "You're sorry?!"

"I – I hurt you." Izuru hid her face. "Please forgive me."

"Izuru, this is about Keladi. What d'you mean you hurt me? You didn't do anything wrong. I…" Catching myself, I removed my helmet and placed it on the bunk above. "Izuru, Keladi was my fault. I'll tell you why…" Pulling at my collar, I moved my slung Castra around to my lap and sat down on the edge of the bunk. "Izuru. Look at me."

Sniffing, Izuru manoeuvred around to face me, keeping her knees pressed together.

"I betrayed you. I sold you out to the Inquisitor so that me and my mates could escape the punishment we was supposed to get after we landed here on Cadia. I'm sorry, I should've told you sooner." Clasping at my throat, I swallowed, finding it hard to do so. The confession did not make me feel any better. "I'm sorry you weren't there to protect Keladi. It's all my fault. I'm sorry." Looking away, I realised my own eyes were moist. Working a thumb over my tear ducts, I wiped them dry. "'Ere." Taking a handkerchief from an inside pocket, I wetted it with water from my canteen. "Can I…?" Grasping the edge of the top bunk, I bent down and wiped Izuru's cheeks. "All I can say is sorry. It's not what I wanted, believe me. I wanted you two to find one another again and get away from this hell. Keladi went out fighting, so she did. Pulling wounded men out of the line of fire whilst risking her own. If anyone was worthy of the title Howling Banshee; it was her."

"Ranger," Izuru said, nodding her head shakily. "She would have taken the Path of the Ranger with my guidance. It was what she wanted."

"She was a hero. A real hero. She could have hidden away inside the CCS but no, she stepped up instead and fought alongside us, tough as any grunt." I smiled sadly, wiping underneath Izuru's chin. "Be proud of her. Carry her memory with you always."

"She would have reached adulthood on the morrow. I know that for certain." Izuru began sobbing again. "Now she will never grow older. I know I am deserving of ever-lasting punishment because of my heritage. But to rip Keladi from my arms…?" Izuru's eyes widened in misery. "Who decides it?"

"Shush. It's alright." Suppressing the rising lump in my throat, I diligently wiped Izuru's cheeks clean of tears. "Did you retrieve her necklace?"

"I have her here." Izuru unclasped her hand, showing me Keladi's spirit stone. "Her soul. It must be returned to Ulthwé and placed within the Infinity Circuit, lest it be consumed by the Great Serpent and condemned to an eternity of torment."

Sitting back down, I said, "and that's exactly what you're gonna do. Leave and never come back. Forget this lot. Forget me and go home." For some reason I balked at saying that aloud. Confused, I asked myself whether I truly wanted her to leave.

Wiping her eyes, Izuru shook her head. "I cannot leave."

"Yes, you can. You were wrong to get mixed up in this human war in the first place. You stickies should never have set foot on Cadia. The entire expedition was half-arsed. I'm sorry, but that's just how it is." Sighing, I stopped myself on hearing the biting tone in my voice. "What were they thinking, sending such a pitiful force here without reinforcement?"

"No, I cannot leave because I am going to kill the Inquisitor," Izuru said, a wild, desperate look in her eye. "He has hurt both you and I, and through me, Keladi. Were it not for his meddling, I would have taken Keladi and run."

"I'm the one who told him—"

"Did you tell him where we were?" Izuru, in tearful bitterness, leant forwards. "Say you did not tell him. Say you did not tell him!"

"I did not tell him," I breathed, my hand upon my heart. "There's someone in the company informing for him. It's the only explanation."

"Who? Who?" Izuru's teeth were gritted. "I will break his body and tear his mind to pieces for this."

"I don't know. I _don't_ know." Massaging my dry throat, I took a swig from my canteen, grimacing at the promethium after-taste. "Izuru, I want to talk about how it happened. Now, uh, Keladi was beside me. We had taken cover behind that plinth in front of the building. It was good, solid cover. No way she was getting hit there."

"I know the difference between an entry and exit wound. If Keladi was facing the enemy then she was shot from behind." Izuru bared her teeth, nearly apoplectic with rage. "A deliberate, cowardly act carried out on the Inquisitor's order."

"I don't know. It could be anyone that's still here. I'll have to have a chat with Cyrano."

"You trust him?"

"He were on Nemtess. Pulled us out of a tight spot, so he did."

"Aimo?"

"Aimo's blind, Izuru," I said sullenly.

Unaware of Aimo's wounds, Izuru's face fell. "I'm sorry. I know he is your closest friend."

"No-one else I can trust."

Seeing her wounded expression, I hastily apologised, "there's you too," and passed my canteen across to Izuru, who drank greedily, spilling water down her chin, coughing due to her hunched over posture.

"Aw, you've gone done it again, you 'ave." Tutting, I passed the dirty handkerchief over, exchanging it with my now-empty canteen. "So, you got the nightmares then, did ya?"

"I cannot speak of it." Izuru shuddered. "My life, falling to pieces."

"You said you hurt me."

"Please, I do not want to talk about it."

"I understand," I said flatly, standing up.

"Please don't leave," Izuru blurted. "I don't – I don't want to be alone again."

"No, you won't. You won't." Reaching up to the mattress on the top bunk, I pulled it off and threw it into the centre of the room. Then, placing the torch upon the bunk on the opposite side of the room, it's beam providing me with light, I sat down on the edge of the mattress. An odd expression broke through the mask of grief that had tarnished Izuru's features, as if she was expecting me to do something different.

Setting the two halves of my body armour beside me, I looked over my shoulder at Izuru. "Worried I wasn't gonna get time to do this. Now's better than ever, I s'pose." Saying that, I took out the notepaper and pencil, resting the former upon my knee. "These letters aren't gonna write themselves. Sleep it off, Izuru."

"I cannot sleep."

"Then don't. I don't either. Think of how you're gonna waste the Inquisitor. You were there, you saw the layout of his place. Get an entry plan together."

After trying and failing to begin the letters to my old fireteam's families, I scrunched up the fifth ball of paper and threw it against the wall. "That's shit," I repeated, starting again. I had vowed all the way back on the Grace that I would write those letters to the four families whose sons had all died on Nemtess. But there were others too. Leo Wind, Otto Rinek, Elias Katecka, and so many other before them. Thinking back, I realised right then just how many that I had befriended in the past were dead; left forgotten along the way. But still I went on. I did not understand it.

Dropping the pencil and paper, I pressed my arms to my sides and clapped both hands over my mouth. Why the shock overcame me then, I did not know. All of it, everything that had happened to me was only in the last seven months. It had not even been a year. "Oh my god, Martti," I gasped. "Staf, Drow, Risto, Bulaven, Hallan, Leden." Babbling out the names of my old comrades, I doubled over, breathing heavily, and unable to control the overpowering panic that brought the walls in closer, stifling me of oxygen.

A hand on my shoulder brought me out of the strange episode. What it was I could not know for certain but it had triggered over the memories of those I had either lost or abandoned. I blamed myself for it all.

"Hush now." Izuru rubbed my shoulder consolingly. "Do not dwell upon old memories. Think of warm, summer days, and clear, blue sky. Breathe. And smile."

My chin sunk onto my breast. Caught in the throes of drowsiness, I said, "don't put me to sleep again. I'm alright."

"Then I am alright too. And that makes us both liars."

"How do you cope?"

"We restrain ourselves emotionally. It is a burden we must all bear and have borne since the fall of our empire ten-thousand human years ago. It was our desire, our excess, our hedonism, our debauchery that spawned the thing you see in the sky."

"The Eye of Terror…"

"It was the very centre of our proud empire. Such dominion we held over the galaxy that the very stars bowed to our will. But still we were not satisfied."

"Arrogance."

"Hubris. And the reminder walks with us to this day, waiting to prey on our souls when we die. She will not be named. To us she is known as the Great Serpent. Our doom."

"But you've got a way round her, haven't you? Those things you've got round your neck."

"The Waystones bear our souls. Sealed away from her clutches. That is why it is important that I return to Ulthwé and deliver Keladi's Waystone. She deserves to be at rest."

"Of course." I completely understood that Izuru was duty-bound to see Keladi home. It reminded me of my duty to my mates. Their families deserved to know without being fed the formal drivel from the Imperial Guard about how their sons died pious, noble soldiers of the God-Emperor. Bolstered by Izuru, I placed a new page on my knee. With the nub of the pencil hovering over the paper, I started in discomfort when Izuru touched my arm. "What you doing?"

"…James."

My stomach lurched on hearing Izuru use – for the first time – my name. Of course, it wasn't my proper name but my second name. Arvin I hated to be called, then name sounding too rural. Nonetheless, I squirmed, uneasy at her touch.

Sensing my anxiety, Izuru removed her hand. "Apologies. I go too far."

"This isn't you, Izuru."

"No. You are right and I am wrong. How are you feeling now?"

Jabbing dots into the paper, I said, "inadequate, def–deficient, impotent. Dunno what those words even mean…"

"You flay yourself over past events you could not have possibly influenced the outcome of." Izuru rested a hand on my shoulder, rubbing gently. "The fault lies not with you. I am appalled to think that you would even consider yourself responsible when so many others were likewise involved."

Putting the pencil down, I put my hand over Izuru's. "Nah, silly of me. They like dumb subservience in the Guard. Makes it easy for 'em to send us lot to our deaths 'cause they know we're too dumb to be of any use."

"Put yourself down no longer. You are not who you think you are. This – this juvenile conscript that you once were has gone forever. I would like to see – I do see – a young man with a good heart in my company. Xenos I am but I understand the love you bear for your brothers-in-arms. I hold the same for mine. There, now we are alike."

"You want it to be like that?" I looked over my shoulder, uncertain at what Izuru meant.

"I do." Shifting forwards, Izuru wrapped both arms over my shoulders and kissed the back of my neck.

"Alright. Okay," I muttered nervously, flushing when I felt Izuru's breasts pressing into my back. "I, um…"

"You are sought," Izuru said sharply, breaking her hold on me.

"What?" Momentarily befuddled, I flailed around, clumsily trying to fasten the clips on my flak armour. "Shit. Zeke's having another go at the CCS."

"Here." Izuru fetched my Gerax from where it was leaning against the wall. "Peculiar rifle."

"Cover." I scrabbled for my ceramite, nodding gratefully when Izuru passed it to me. "I'll shout if I need you," I said, hurrying from the room and out into the corridor.

* * *

"James, you up here?" Cyrano called from downstairs.

"Yeah, what is it?" I ran down to the end of the hall and took the steps, two at a time. If Zeke really was gearing up for a second attack then we were stuffed. I doubt Kora would intervene a second time. What was her interest in all this?

"Cyrano, talk to me. How many infantry, tracks, tanks? Is it Nathaniel?" I yelled, pulling Cyrano by the arm when I found him in the entrance hall. "C'mon, tell me!"

"No-no-no, James. It's not Zeke." Cyrano caught me by the shoulders. "It's okay. It's not Zeke."

"Then who is it? What's all the palaver about?"

"You will like this."

Annoyed at the disturbance, I stamped after Cyrano, following him outside and across the cratered street to the CCS's grounds. _This better be good_ , I thought.

It was. To my joy I noticed a Nerian face that I thought I would never see again.

"Ral!" I cried.

Caught up in the midst of Aimo, Gale, and even Azar, Ral Bleak spun round, beaming. "Never thought I'd see you again, scallywag."

"Nah, me neither, scumbag." I rushed over, pumped Ral's hand then hugged him. "Aw, mate, I'm so 'appy to see you."

"Me too. Look who I brought along."

"Uh?" I saw Ral pointing at Tom Carillo, who was lying on his front on a stretcher. "The fuck happened to you, you ballbag?"

"That you, Larn?" Carillo rolled onto his side. "You still alive?"

"Working on that one." I grinned. Throwing my arm over Ral's shoulder, I asked how he had got from Kasr Jark, all the way down to Kraf and the CCS.

"We flew."

"What, you sprout wings and fly down here, did ya?"

"No, dippy, we got a ride on a slick with some wounded."

"Oh, you try the old stretcher-bearer tactic?"

"Nah, we got invited on."

"Invited?"

"Then we got shot down, attacked by Zeke, and rescued by another slick."

"Well, why didn't they pick you up then? You could have been down at the airbase getting a transport off-world by now."

"Too full." Ral shrugged. "There was some ack-ack in the area too. Guess he thought it wasn't worth the risk. We had to walk to Kraf. Oh, before you ask 'how did you get inside the wall?' I'll say it was Zeke that beat us to it."

"Yeah, we've had our hands full with him here."

"Some maintenance hatch underneath a sluice gate got breached. Zeke must've snuck on through. Cunning twats."

"Don't explain how he got armour through the perimeter…"

"I dunno, mate."

"Aah, that don't matter. We wasted Zeke by the dozen when he attacked this morning. We'll do the same again." In good spirits, I thumped Ral on the shoulder. "Brilliant having you back, pal. And you, scumbag," I said to Carillo.

"Wouldn't have made it far without the colonel. S'pecially with me dragging Mister Grumblesome along."

"They shot me in my arse, Ral," Carillo exclaimed.

"So the only thing you can't do right now is sit." I laughed. "So who's this colonel then. What's his problem?"

"Oh, she's just there." Ral pointed at the door of the muncip building.

My risen spirits plummeted when a slim officer in Cadian khaki stepped out of the CCS. Underneath her dirty green beret was the instantly recognisable face of the intelligence colonel from Rakka. I struggled to recall her name. The white nametag on her breast was dirtied to the point of being unreadable, a far cry from the spotless lifer I had her painted as while she was at Rakka. Slinking away, Ral left me standing on my own; a prime target for the colonel.

"Afternoon, Sergeant." The colonel smiled politely when she recognised me.

"Afternoon, ma-am," I said stonily.

"A word?"

Falling into step beside her, we walked out of earshot. "Rather a coincidence, don't you think, Sergeant?"

"Yes, ma-am." I kept an even tone, not wishing to discuss our past meetings.

"Mister Corta?"

"Mister Corta left with the rest of the company at dawn, ma-am. I volunteered to remain behind with a party to defend the casualty station. We succeeded in our objective. Zeke – the enemy I mean – withdrew just after eleven-hundred hours."

"Yes, I saw the destroyed Chimera. Very good work, Sergeant. I understand you are waiting for the surgeon to return. A Major Serreck?"

"Yes, ma-am, Major Serreck left this morning with a convoy of wounded, bound for the airbase. We're holding here in case Zeke comes back. We'll hear him long before we see him."

"Very well. Thank you, Sergeant."

"Will you be heading down to the airbase, ma-am?" I asked.

"I must speak with Major Serreck and assess the status of the CCS. It appears to me that you are now outside the perimeter."

"Is there another line of defence behind the bastion walls, ma-am?"

"Bastion One through Bastion Seventeen make up the inner perimeter. They form a rough boundary around the airbase. That will be our last line of defence if the citadel has not already fallen."

"Yes, ma-am. If that will be all?"

"It will, Sergeant."

Glad to be excused, I turned away.

"You still owe us." She wore a smug smile.

"It that will be all, ma-am?" I repeated coldly.

Clasping her hands behind her back, the colonel nodded.

"Bloody officers," I said aloud to Ral, Aimo, and Cyrano when I was back amongst them.

"Oh, yep, yep, that's exactly the boy I know." Aimo laughed, shoving me when I squeezed up beside him..

"Why didn't you lose your tongue instead of your eyes?" I snapped.

"Bullying a blind man?" Ral, behind us, snorted.

"I'm not blind. It's only temporary," Aimo said indignantly. "Bastards."

"Can I have a word?" Ral, serious now, tapped me on the shoulder.

"Yeah, what is it?" Putting weight on my aching knees, I followed Ral through a hole in the boundary wall, over to the vacant patch of ground where the Zekes were buried.

Perching upon a pile of masonry, Ral looked at me with grave eyes. "Who are we down on, James?"

Leaning against the crumbling wall, I scratched the rough stubble under my chin. "Perandis, Belisha, Kat, Scurm, Weld, Tsak. They all bought the farm."

"Kat was one of us," Ral said quietly. "His name was—"

"Elias. I know, Ral. I'm sorry I didn't get to know him better." Clasping my hands together, I wrung them agitatedly. "It's just, these things happen. You know they either happen really fast or really slow. You 'member Nemtess?"

"Yes, James. I remember Nemtess."

"I'm trying to forget it."

"I'm not."

Stunned, I gawked at Ral whose eyes were fixed on something far away.

"It's not just you." Ral's grim expression cracked. "We all lost someone there."

Slapping my shoulder lightly, Ral wandered back over to the others, leaving me gazing into space with dull, brooding eyes. I was still in contemplation when I returned my mates and mumbled an order.

"Sorry, James?" Cyrano shushed the others. "Say again?"

"I want an OP set up. Three volunteers to go with me," I droned.

"No need. I will gladly set up the OP. Gale, Borens?" Cyrano rose, slinging his M-36 over his shoulder.

Gale followed willingly. Borens however was held back by Lorne. The Highlanders were reluctant to be separated it seemed. Stepping in before Cyrano brought his boot down, I motioned Borens to stay. "Cyrano, Gale, and me."

"Ral should see your shoulder first. You were using it to shoot before too," Cyrano said. "Ral?"

"Okay, show me." Ral tugged at my sleeve, bringing me down onto my knees. "Didn't tell me you were hit, James."

"S'nothing. Cyrano, Lorne, Borens, get moving. Gale, you stay. I'll be with you in ten."

Stripping off my body armour, gear, jacket, and t-shirt, I waited as Ral unwound the grey dressing from where it had been tied across my torso and around my shoulder.

"Does it hurt?" Ral asked, examining the little red hole underneath my collarbone.

"Nah, nothing."

"Lift your arm up."

I raised my arm, high enough for my elbow to be horizontal. "I'm alright, Ral. Just took a knock, that's all."

"Higher." Ral pushed my arm upwards by the elbow when I refused.

"Ow."

"Alright." Ral let my arm go. "It was clean. Went in and out. You were lucky this time."

"Yeah, cheers." Hastily donning my uniform, I rolled my shoulder around, letting out a soft 'ah' when I felt a twinge. Remembering Izuru, I decided to let her know of Ral's arrival.

* * *

"It's me," I said after knocking on the door.

"Come in."

Entering the dorm, I saw Izuru was sitting upon the mattress I had left on the floor. In her hands was one of the aborted letters. She had stopped crying though there was still a definite wetness in her eyes.

"This is good," she said, showing the crumpled sheet to me.

"It's shit," I said, leaning my Gerax against the wall and placing my Castra and bandolier beside it.

"You are wrong." Izuru smoothed the paper on the mattress. "By your leave."

"Fine." I replaced my hard cover with my beret, moulding the soft material into the proper shape then removing the two halves of my Cadian body armour.

"Dear Mr and Mrs Sinric. My name is James. I am a good friend of your son Martti. He served with distinction in my platoon, earning himself the admiration and respect of his comrades during our time on Nemesis Tessera. Times were hard on Nemtess. It is an icy, windswept world with little redeeming traits. The most Martti and I got up to in our spare time was keeping warm around a fire, though it sparked a kinship within our fireteam, and over the weeks we grew close. This bond exists between soldiers and soldiers alone. It is a brotherhood that sprouts from time spent sharing the dangers of frontline combat with one another, and blossoms into a deep willingness to do anything for each other, even dying if it meant that one of your mates could live. I regret not knowing Martti in civilian life though I am certain that he would be just as fine a man on civvy street as he was in combat. Were our positions reversed, it would be him writing this letter to my family instead. But it was he who gave his life up for me as I lay helpless in a coma. This he did fully aware of the consequences, yet he did it without hesitation. He was a true friend. The best a grunt could ever hope to know. His memory now rests forever in my heart and he shall never be forgotten. James Larn."

Izuru finished and fell silent. Putting the letter down, she got to her feet and reached out to me. Hesitantly stepping forwards, I blinked away tears. I had no more to shed over fallen friends. Without a word, I took Izuru's hand and watched as she pushed back my sleeve, brushing a prominent vein that stood out underneath my skin with soft fingertips. "I also believe the letter you wrote is sub-par. There, that makes us both liars."

"Didn't sound right to me," I grunted. The embarrassment at hearing the letter read aloud had rendered my throat completely dry.

"James, I want you to rewrite it word-for-word," Izuru said sternly. "You _must_."

"I dunno…"

"I cannot." Izuru sat me down upon the mattress and passed me a fresh sheet of paper. "It must be your hand."

Looking between the two sheets, I inhaled deeply. "Okay."

Part-way through the letter I stopped mid-sentence, remembering the news. "Izuru, Ral's back."

The look of concentration Izuru wore broke into a warm smile that spoke of genuine fondness for the Nerian medic. After all he had treated her twice, and twice successfully too.

"We are fortunate to have such a warrior on our side." Izuru beamed, her eyes twinkling. "It appears you humans cannot be kept apart from each other. I envy you."

"Heh, yeah." I made the final few lines and signed the letter with my name. Heartened that Izuru was beginning to recover, I made a cautious probe; it concerned Keladi. "You're grieving still?" It did not appear that she was.

"We do not grieve as you do." Izuru planted her hand on the mattress and leant on it. "Though her body is lost, her spirit endures."

"No more tears?"

"None. I must apologise for my recent conduct. It was inappropriate." Izuru smoothed her creased t-shirt down, glancing at her knees.

"But you just lost…"

"Her spirit endures." Izuru smiled. "And so do I."

"I lost mine a long time ago. Body, mind, spirit. That's the three things we're made of."

"What of heart?"

"Part o' the body."

"Heart is its own entity. How else do you still care for your friends? Compassion, kinship, those virtues you still possess. I know because…" Izuru shifted closer and laid her palm over my thudding heart, whispering, "I can feel it."

The patient _thud-thud, thud-thud, thud-thud_ rose in tempo. Casting my eyes down, I looked at Izuru's hand, confused. Everything inside was confused, worried, or nauseous. The way Izuru had got under my skin only served to perplex me further. Taking a shaky breath, I folded the letter into quarters and tucked it into a hip pocket. Wiping a finger down my cheek, over the thin cut from the ejecting brass, I met Izuru's eye. Still shining bright from where I had left it, the torch faltered.

"Bloody thing," I muttered, going over to the bunk and shaking the crude tool, not a little relieved it had chosen then to sputter. "I'm uh… I've got… there's this OP."

Izuru had not moved or spoken a single word.

"We're still waiting for Major Serreck to come back…" Scratching my neck, I felt an odd warmth underneath my collar.

"Take off your beret. Face me, eye-to-eye," Izuru said softly. Our usual roles of her towering above me were reversed now that I was standing and she was sitting. At odds with the awkward exchange, I knelt in front of Izuru and peeled my beret off.

"This is all there is," I said simply, setting my soft cover upon the floor. "Warts and all."

Staring at one another for a time, I noticed an acute change in Izuru's eyes. Normally the pupil in her right eye was dilated, setting a contrast to her other, normal eye. Now both pupils had widened, swelling outwards to fill the iris entirely. Izuru's hands came up and rested on my forearms. Moving them up to my shoulders, Izuru leant forwards and kissed my forehead, gently moving a hand underneath my chin and pushing upwards, tilting my head back.

"You dishonour yourself," I said, the blood rushing to my face.

"My honour is my concern," Izuru murmured, her lips brushing mine.

Without thinking of what I was doing, my hands found Izuru's waist, following the curves, rising higher around her back, to her shoulders, and pulling her closer. Rather than allowing herself to be drawn in, Izuru got off her knees and sat with her legs to one side, hunched as low as she could to be level with me. Shyly, I kissed her, the small pecks quickly leaving me short of breath. Waiting for me to regain it, Izuru rubbed her cheek against mine, whispering in her own tongue, the words meaningless to me. When our open mouths met, Izuru's tongue sparked a bout with my own, making me fight back passionately until I ran out of steam. With that, Izuru pushed me away and sank back, her shoulders rising and falling, mirroring mine. Exhausted and surprised at the amount of energy it had taken, I stared at Izuru with an almost hungry expression, guilty at what had just happened.

"I'm sorry." I clapped a hand over my loudly thumping heart. "I'm not sure I'm ready for this."

Forgoing any playful cajoling, Izuru drew me into her embrace and kissed my neck, tugging at my thin collar. Clinging to Izuru, I felt her breasts pressing into me. Two firm shapes set in the soft mounds were hard against my chest. With her breath in my ear, I ran a hand through her hair, feeling matted, unwashed strands, and sticky clumps pass through my fingers. I could not have cared less how she smelt, for she could not have been anywhere near as bad as I was. That thought stirred another pang of guilt within me. Was I making her do this against her own will?

Pausing, Izuru worked at the buttons on my LP jacket, running through the row briskly and removing my arms from the sleeves without any input from me. When I reached for the hem of her t-shirt, she batted it away, her own hands hauling my olive grey t-shirt over my head.

"Is this you?" Izuru, her face a hairs-breadth from mine, spoke with an undertone of seriousness in her voice, surprising me. "Is this you?"

Nonplussed, I replied, "yes."

Planting a kiss on my lips, Izuru swept across the room and pried a second mattress from a bunk and dumped it beside the first. "Take off your boots," Izuru said in a low voice.

Fumbling with the thin laces, I undid the knots running around my calves, cursing at my dry hands. At Izuru's command to turn around, I did so obediently, loosening the laces enough to kick the odd matrimony of leather and canvas away, along with my OG trousers; hearing a rustle of falling clothing as I did so. Unsure if I was allowed to look, I remained eyes-forward, imagining that I was doing square-bashing with the old company back on Jumael, and that if I made so much as a titter, or even blinked out of turn then I would be on a fizzer. Or worse than that, I would be called in to the senior drill NCO's office. I remembered a blustering recruit, all uppity on some medical condition that excused him from the more strenuous phases of physical, be called into the office. When he came out, thirty minutes later, he never mentioned his so-called condition again.

"Izuru?" I wondered what was keeping her, and why I was not allowed to look.

A cascade of thick, dark hair, falling upon my head, spread downwards, over my eyes. Seizing the hair, I flung it away, whirling around and taking hold of Izuru's bare hips. Gasping, she wrenched my hands away, linking her fingers through mine and forcing them backwards. This continued until I gave out, unable to match her strength, coming up short of breath once more. Laughing at her easy victory, Izuru fell down on top of me, burying her face in mine. Unable to get a word in, I strained to keep up, all reserves of stamina dwindling. It was not an exchange I was in a position to come out on top of, until Izuru curbed her pace, slowing enough so that I – pink-faced and panting – could gulp down a lungful of air. Relinquishing her control, Izuru let me roll her over onto her back. Our gazes lingered on each other. How I used to fear her eyes, fear the penetrating stare, and the caged ferocity behind them. They bled passion now. All enmity had long since drained and was left forgotten on Platis and Grendel.

" _Iam bonf uel sin yass lir_." Izuru spoke slowly and with enough emphasis on each word, that I could make them out. But still they meant nothing. Shaking my head sadly, I kissed Izuru's cheeks, dearly wishing I understood the foreign tongue. The ten minutes I had promised Cyrano vanished.

Lying in Izuru's arms a while later, spent, and without want or care, I felt my eyelids drooping. Stripped of all strength and dog-tired from the action at the bastion and the CCS, I began dropping off, my head rising and falling with Izuru's breast.

* * *

 _Eighty-nine minutes_. _Eighty-nine minutes of idleness_. _Eighty-nine minutes wasted,_ the cold, pragmatic side of Izuru remarked. On her back still, and with James sleeping soundly in her embrace, Izuru looked up at the ceiling. James' companionship was not an easy one. He gave little of his own personality away and – something Izuru had noticed recently – he was becoming more withdrawn. The attempt at suicide Izuru had coldly, angrily denounced, viewing it as a cowardly, selfish act and continuing to believe it until the nightmare of her murdering James then turning his gun on herself made her reconsider; further throwing her feelings into turmoil.

 _A calculated act_. _One which I pray pays off_. The pragmatic manner returned. _The lovemaking will replenish his self-esteem and bolster his confidence, a necessary sacrifice if you are to manipulate him into accompanying you to kill the Inquisitor._

Ignoring the little voice inside her, Izuru stroked James's hair tenderly. The physical love had left her feeling oddly weak though it was not as if she had surrendered herself entirely to him and done nothing in return. For that matter, neither had he. _Never surrender_. _Neither here nor on the battlefield_. Izuru smiled affectionately when James opened a bleary eye. "Hello."

"How long?" James croaked, passing a sweaty hand across his face.

"Near one hour and a half." Izuru guided James's hand and placed it upon her breasts. "You slept without stirring. How do you feel?"

"Like I embarrassed you." James moved upwards to lie face-to-face with her. "Sorry."

"I do not accept your apology for you have naught to apologise for."

"I did it for you. I thought it would help you out. Get you back on your feet and ready for the next fight." James touched her shoulder, grinning encouragingly.

"I…" Catching her breath, Izuru considered lying but found she could not do it. Not directly to his face anyway. "I have seen your pain. How deeply it goes. It frightens me, you know, frightens me that you are a danger to yourself."

"Let's not talk about it then."

"I sought to replenish your spirit by tempting you with intercourse. In turn I would have requested you accompany me on the hunt for the Inquisitor."

"I would have gone with you anyway, Izuru. I owe you for Keladi. We're gonna get it done." James stroked Izuru's breasts, leant over and planted a kiss at the corner of her mouth. "Once he's gone…"

"Home."

"Home."

Separating, Izuru dressed hastily, avoiding looking over at James, becoming business-like as she worked her messy hair into a bun. "Let us leave when darkness falls. I suspect the going will be perilous."

"Yeah. I'm gonna be bringing some of the lads along with us."

"Choose only those you trust," Izuru said sharply. "I do not want a bullet in the back."

"Yup. I know who."

"Here." Izuru, fully-clothed, went over to where the Castra and the other rifle leant, picking them up one by one and passing them to James. "A curious relic," she commented, running her hands over the rifle's strange, side-mounted magazine and the ribbed muzzle brake. "Your Kazalak?"

"KA blew up." James pointed at the scar across his cheek. "Got a face-full of brass from firing this bloody thing left-handed."

"Why do these things happen to you?" Izuru received nothing but a shrug in return.

When she made to follow James out into the corridor, he raised a hand. "No, no. There's this officer prowling around the CCS. I don't want her seeing you."

"Is she alone?" Izuru frowned, none too pleased at James' insistence that she stay, having grown tired of hiding.

"Yes."

"Then she shall have to bear me. I will explain, in loud, short sentences that I mean her no harm. I just hope her malformed, human brain can process such a phenomenon."

"You've got a way with people, 'aven't you?" James chuckled, tucking his helmet's chinstrap through his web belt and leaving the ceramite dangling. "Right, cover's going back on now. You're the captain, and I'm the sarn't, ma-am."

"Hold." Izuru, looming over the shorter James, placed her hands on his shoulders and plunged her mouth down onto his for one last foray. "I pray we carry each other through the coming battles," Izuru said when she broke away.

"What was it you said back then?" James's face became inquisitive and almost dour because he did not know the meaning of her words.

"It does not matter," Izuru replied quickly. "It was in the moment…"

"Okay." Nodding, James seated his beret on his head, becoming cold and professional. "After you, ma-am."

Politely opening the door for her, James waited for her to leave the room and closed up behind her; indicating for her to walk alongside him. "This way."

With formalities resumed, Izuru kept her head up and her chin out, appearing aloof and distant. There was a noticeable spring in James's step now; very noticeable. _A fair effort for his first time_ , Izuru remarked dryly. _Perhaps again soon_.

"Did you just…?" James stopped.

"What?" Izuru turned just as James was yanked off his feet and up into the air. It happened too fast for him to gather breath to cry out. Izuru snatched James's rifle which had fallen from his grip and aimed it up at a shadow clad in all metal as it uncoiled itself from the darkness above.

"DROP HIM!" Izuru screamed, her thumb removing the safety catch, fully intent on filling the monstrosity with as many slugs as she could.

"It's alright," James gasped. Dangling upside down, one of his feet in the thing's grasp, James flailed his arms around. "Don't shoot, Izuru. I know this woman."

"Know her?" Izuru did not relax her posture when the thing emerged from the deepest shadows. What had appeared horrific before now revealed itself in its entirety to Izuru's disbelieving eyes. A human female, clad in a scaled, shimmering cape, and a metallic bodysuit, glared knives at Izuru from her inverted position. A soft, green hue surrounded her.

"S'alright. Her name's Kora. I know her. Kora, it's me, Larn."

"Let. Him. Go." Izuru issued her warning fiercely. She would only do so once. _If you hurt him…_

"We seek a common foe. Our quarry is one and the same. Stalk his scent but come not between me and my prey. I say this once, and once only," the human James had called Kora spoke sharply, in an echoing voice, her eyes boring into Izuru who responded with a look of pure venom.

"Kora, why did you help us before?" James yelped when Kora let go and shot back up into the shadows. "Aah, ow." James groaned, grasping at his shoulder after it had collided with the hard floor.

"Where did she-?" Izuru dragged James out from underneath the spot where Kora had vanished, placing herself between the abomination and him. "Back. Get back."

"Don't shoot."

"James." Izuru clamped a hand on his arm, rooting him in place, and fixing him with an intense stare. "Tell me. Who is Kora?"


	40. Chapter 39

**Aptus District, Kasr Kraf, 16:48**

Massaging my bruised shoulder, I leant back against the wall. Izuru still had hold of my arm. She did not appear to be willing to let go until I had given her a satisfactory answer.

"Okay…" Reshaping my beret, I met Izuru's stern gaze and said, "Kora's a spy – an assassin – I dunno. I met her on the changeover between Grendel and Nemtess. It was on Agripinaa. I was in a spot o' bother with the Tin Men – uh, Arbites. Long story short, I stowed away on Kora's ship – she let me stow away onboard. Of course, I thought her kindness was real, was genuine." Shaking my head, I added, "nah, it wasn't. She's Inquisition – _was_ Inquisition. Then she came 'round again when I was in hospital on Haven. She was the sorta person who blows up a hospital to kill one target. That was me. Some Green Slime pulled my arse out of that one – uh, military intelligence. That colonel, the one downstairs, she's intelligence," I blurted the last part out. "She's been watching me for a long time. Guess 'cause I've survived all the shit that's thrown at me. Me! No proper experience, no proper training other 'an Phase One. By rights I should be dead." Swallowing, my face burning, I hung my head. "All this crazy madness. I don't care about any of it anymore. I'm done. Done with the Guard, done with Cadia, done with losing my mates."

"Look at me."

"I don't want to lose any more," I mumbled.

"You won't. I would have killed her had she hurt you. Did she hurt you?" Izuru asked.

"No, she didn't."

Surveying me for a moment, Izuru smiled sadly. "Thank you for being honest, James. I would rather we did not keep secrets from one another anymore."

"No more secrets. I promise."

"Yours." Izuru passed me the Gerax. "And this colonel. I shall be having words with her."

"Please don't. I don't want you in danger like last time," I begged. "You were this close to being shot by Corta. If it weren't for the Inquisitor—"

"Do not speak his name!" Izuru snapped.

"Sorry. Nah, he don't have a name. He's just a target."

"One I shall fell with my own hands."

"Izuru, if you get in the way of Kora, she might—"

"The Inquisitor will die by my hand. Not hers," Izuru said solemnly. "Any that mean harm on you or I will die. There is no compromise."

"Alright. I just don't want no more incidents. Be co-operative. Please."

"I shall carry myself as I always have," Izuru said haughtily, regaining her full height. "And I will be having words with this colonel."

Staring up at her, I let out a long, slow breath. Throne, Izuru was a lot of work.

* * *

In the interim of Major Serreck's departure from the airbase, and his return to the CCS, hours later, new orders had arrived. They came straight from the deputy director of medicae services, concerning the personnel at 12th Casualty Clearing Station. It was from the chaplain, Karl Vereker, that Serreck received the orders. Depressed at seeing the detritus fouling the CCS's grounds, Serreck pulled up in the street outside the gate, finding his passage blocked by a Chimera lying on its side. Further souring his mood were the rows of bloodstained groundsheets that were flapping in the wind. Of the bodies there was no sign.

"Throne of Terra," Serreck muttered, switching off and dismounting. From the four other Hennus lorries parked behind him, drivers began to climb out, shock at the damage the muncip building had taken etched in their faces. Every single tent that had been previously erected in the grounds had been flattened. Dark trails of blood were everywhere, patches of it having soaked into the dry ground. Many cartridge casings, spent charge packs and magazines lay around. Then Serreck saw it. A simple wooden cross with a ceramite helmet sitting on top, and behind it an autogun, the bayonet it had attached thrust into the ground; acting as a marker.

"God-Emperor almighty," Serreck gasped, quickly glancing around at the men in his party, praying they had not overheard his soft exclamation. Hurriedly suppressing the urge to throw up, Serreck swallowed and strode through the wasted grounds, heading up the steps and inside the building. Just inside the doorway, Serreck was met by the chaplain. "Zeke happened?"

Vereker nodded grimly. "Infantry and a Chimera made a play for the CCS this morning. That scratch force saw them off, I think. There was a miracle at work, some say. Intervention from a higher power that saw us through."

"Don't talk such rot, Karl. You're a chaplain!" Serreck snorted. "It looks like a bloody disaster to me."

"A blessed miracle. Emperor knows, these boys here have been praying round the clock for one."

"I suppose we have that sergeant to thank for the defence – Larn. Is he around?"

"He was round for the burial and service. Not seen him since though."

"Alright. What were our casualties?"

"Us, nineteen dead, three times as many wounded. The enemy, I really don't know. They're buried in the far corner of the grounds. Over by the south-east wall." Vereker scratched his unshaven chin, pondering on something. "A despatch rider reached us not long before you returned. He bore a message from the deputy director of medicae services. We are pulling out."

"Thank the Emperor." Serreck grinned.

"Well, I wouldn't be so quick as to thank him yet. One medical officer and ten men are to stay behind for every hundred wounded."

"…Ah."

"So we'll be holding a ballot as to who stays."

"No volunteers?"

"I'd rather we do it fairly."

"Hm, right then. Let's get this sorted."

Though Serreck did not say it to his friend, he was loathe to leave another officer in his place if his name was not drawn. As the senior officer at the CCS, Serreck should stay and face the music. At twenty-eight he was an old man compared to the other officers, most of whom were six or seven years his junior. He decided it was better that the younger men be given a guarantee of freedom than himself. When the time came to add his name to the upturned helmet, Serreck pretended to place the little scrap of paper inside, actually retaining it in his hand and preparing to reveal it before the last of the sixteen other officers was picked. Karl Vereker was given the dubious honour of drawing the names. One by one he drew them, reeling off the names of the officers who would be departing at 20:00 that evening. The last three – two – were Hewer and Cregor. Before Vereker could reveal the last name, Serreck opened his hand and showed the gathering the name in his palm. "Serreck."

"Oh, you can't volunteer yourself!" Vereker grumbled.

"Me, Hewer, and Cregor stay. The rest, good luck to you." Serreck nodded and smiled at the other officers. The last man whose name Vereker was about to pick, Warde, looked away guiltily when he caught Serreck's eye.

"Three cheers for Major Serreck," someone said half-heartedly.

That was the worst part, listening to the unconvincing hurrahs delivered. Not a man among them was willing to meet Serreck's eye. There was still three hours to go too before the others' departure. Only Vereker stayed beside Serreck when the congregation dispersed.

"You'll be heading off as well then, Karl?" Serreck said, trying to maintain a don't-carish attitude.

"I doubt Zeke will make much sport of an old chaplain." Vereker smiled weakly.

"Will you pray for us?"

"I'll pray Zeke behaves when he gets here." Vereker shook Serreck's hand and hugged him. "Good luck, Fillip."

"And you, Karl."

"The Emperor protects."

"The Emperor does indeed, Major." A colonel of intelligence Serreck had noticed keeping to the sidelines said. "A noble gesture."

"You'll be departing with the officers too, ma-am?" Serreck asked, hoping he would be rid of the officer sooner or later. "I have no use here for an officer of intelligence."

"Careful, Major." The colonel clasped her arms behind her back. "I can see already a lapse in discipline has occurred at this station. I would rather it not sink further over the next three hours."

"Apologies, ma-am. This station was assaulted earlier today. I was ferrying litter cases down to the ships. It occurred whilst I was away. It was through the tenacity of the men under Sergeant Larn's command that the station was able to hold out."

"Ah, speak of the heretic." Vereker pointed at a slight figure in the corridor outside.

"Yes, speak of the heretic," the colonel whispered, ignoring Larn entirely for the much taller woman behind him.

* * *

"Colonel." I snapped to attention before the colonel. "Major."

"Stand easy, Sergeant," Lapraik spoke softly. "And to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Ma-am?" I noticed with a shiver of unease that Lapraik had not the slightest bit of interest in me, rather her gaze was fixed upon Izuru.

"Good Emperor almighty." Serreck's mouthed dropped at the sight of the stickie.

"Well strike me down with a bolt o' thunder." The chaplain, the colour draining from his face, made the sign of the Aquila hastily.

"Come forth, xenos." Lapraik beckoned, simultaneously shunting me aside.

Forgoing the urge to shout in her face, I bit on the inside of my lower lip and held my tongue. Glancing at Serreck and the chaplain, I saw their stunned faces, and the way they withered as the towering stickie entered the room. Though neither man was anywhere near my height, they were still shorter than her. Lapraik alone was unintimidated by Izuru's stature.

"Thank you, gentlemen." Lapraik nodded curtly at Serreck and the chaplain. When they had left, Lapraik, turning on us, snorted. "Well. The xenos and her human, come before me at last."

Stepping to one side, I glanced between Izuru and Lapraik, the former glaring down her nose at the latter. "Colonel, ma-am. You're speaking to Ranger Captain Izuru Numerial of Ulthwé."

Staring up at Izuru, intent on winning the stare-off, Lapraik said, "xenos and heretic. How quaint. Would you like to choose your method of execution, heretic?"

"We're all heretics here, ma-am," I said evenly.

Lapraik smiled arrogantly. "Ever the maverick."

"We're all on the same side here, Colonel. I just hope it stays that way."

"I see nothing but lies and deceit within you," Izuru said, matching the colonel's hushed tone. "Where I come from, liars have their tongues ripped out."

"Monster." Lapraik sneered, laughing derisively then rounding on me.

Izuru balled her fist and pressed it into Lapraik's shoulder, preventing her from hectoring me further. "Caution, human. You are in the company of monsters. And we can hear."

"Unhand me, xenos filth. You will regret that. Mark my words."

Tiring of the barbed insults being thrown around, I said, "Colonel, Captain Numerial has been supporting us since Rakka. Her aid was invaluable. Look, can we put this xenos thing aside – just for the moment – and maybe work together instead. I know her. I trust her."

"You know her?" Lapraik raised her eyebrows. Lifting a finger, she waggled it as if chastising a child. "And do you know how much trouble you are in?"

"Ma-am, you honestly don't know the 'alf of it. And if you did. You'd shoot me on the spot – _try_ and shoot me on the spot, that is."

Lapraik glanced up, seeing Izuru's thinly-masked contempt. "Quite. Well, I wish the pair of you a short life and a long death. Excuse me."

"I hate her," Izuru said the moment the colonel had stormed out of the room.

"Yeah, she's a bit of an odd one. Never liked her."

"And I should think so too. Such a being would command no respect from her underlings."

"Lifer-probable," I muttered.

As expected, Major Serreck was beside himself with anxiety when I found him upstairs. "What the hell is going on here, Sergeant?" he hissed quietly, not wanting to awaken the patients as he was carrying the urine bottle around. "You bring a – a xenos here?"

"She's on our side, sir, believe it or not," I replied in a similar undertone. "She fought with us at Bastion Three-Three. She's solid, sir."

"Oh, codswallop. I know stickies are supposed to be past masters at deception, espionage, some dirty form of warfare, but I never expected you to fall for that, Sergeant."

"It's the way it is, sir."

"I would like you, the stickie, and the rest of your men out of here immediately, Sergeant. I won't let it be known that a xenos trod where others have. That would be the final straw. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, Major."

Tramping down the stairs, back to the ground floor, I noticed Izuru was squatting beside Aimo. Touching her shoulder, I knelt beside her. "Hey, pal."

"Ha. Can't keep you two apart, can they?" Aimo felt around for my hand, squeezing it when I offered it to him. "What we doing now then?"

"You're walking wounded now, mate. You're off to be evacuated tonight."

"Yeah? We all getting off then?"

Casting an uneasy look at Izuru, I said, "yeah, mate, we're all getting off." Discontent with the lie, I added, "we won't be getting off together though. You'll be let through first 'cause you're walking wounded an' all. Don't worry 'bout it. We'll be along after."

"We'll see each other again though, once we're back at Haven or wherever," Aimo said hopefully.

"Exactly." I clapped Aimo on the shoulder. With him content, I whispered aside to Izuru. "Gear's outside. We're moving, iggery."

Izuru gave me a look as if to say, _now?_

Nodding emphatically, I mouthed, " _please_."

"Does Ral know?" Aimo said.

"Ral's going with you. He'll be right there all the way."

"Mmm. I don't want to be leaving you."

"Nah. We'll find each other again. Course we will."

Giving Aimo a hug, I patted him on the back. "Good luck, pal."

"And you. Is Izuru alright? I heard about her friend."

"I had a talk with her. She'll be fine now."

"Good-oh. Take care of her, will ya?"

"Sure. I reckon she thinks it's the other way 'round though."

"Aah, take care of each other."

"Oi, don't forget the lads. All us lucky able-bodied. Pray for us too." I poked Aimo in jest. "Take it easy, mate."

A slow smile spread across Aimo's face. "I'll take it anyway I can."

Trotting outside, I noted with approval that Izuru was already sifting through the two mounds of equipment and weaponry.

"And what did you say to Aimo?" Izuru asked.

"Told him we'd be along right after him—"

"Tell him the truth," Izuru said coldly, giving me a stern look. "He is your closest companion, and you lie outright to his face."

"I didn't want him all worried 'bout me. You know he'd follow me anywhere. I love that lad like a brother, so I do." Ashamed, I hung my head, refusing to look at Izuru. "Trying to protect him."

Her expression softening, Izuru said, "return to him and convey the truth."

"Okay, sorry." Seeing the folly of my words, I mounted the stairs and went back inside the building.

"Something I forgot, pal," I said, kneeling next to Aimo.

"You're leaving."

"What?"

"I know. I'm not daft, mate. You and Izuru 'ave gotta go do something. I'm binned now. I can't help you." Touching my knee, Aimo smiled warmly, his expression conveying itself even underneath the dressings swathed around his head. "I don't want you worried now. We'll be fine here. I want you happy."

"You're my best friend, Aimo. That's how it's always gonna be." I picked up both of Aimo's hands and clasped them between mine.

Ral was at my shoulder. "Don't suppose you're sticking 'round then?"

Glancing up at him, I shook my head sadly. "I'm sorry, Ral. We've all got a job to do. Ours is separate now. I'm trusting you to get everyone you can down to the ships and off this shithole planet. Don't trust officers. Just save everyone you can."

"James, you're our sarn't—"

"Number ten. I'm not a sarn't." Grimly, I shook Ral's hand. "Won't ever be a sarn't again. I'm done with being in boots. Let's part on a good note, eh?"

"This won't turn out for the better, James. Please stay with us."

"Sorry. It's you lot or her. And I owe her everything."

Ral's downcast eyes spoke more than any words could. Without another word he turned his back and walked away. Bitter at the situation I was being forced into, I left the muncip building.

"Thank you, James," Izuru muttered when I came over. "The truth—"

"The truth hurts," I butted in, digging into the pile of gear beside her. "I'll haul Cyrano in from the OP. I'm bringing the Highlanders along too."

"Highlanders?"

"You know those blokes in the funny berets? They're friends with Woulter and Peter."

"And that gives you reason to trust them? When last we met, they took arms against me. I do not want them with us," Izuru said adamantly.

"Yeah, I know how you feel." I sighed, hauling a set of officer's webbing from the pile and checking the pouches. "They're excellent shock troops. They took sledgehammers to a Nathaniel you zipped. Proper wasted him, they did."

Glowering, Izuru dragged a Volg carbine with an elongated barrel out from underneath a pair of Vintoks and checked the load. "I do not approve of this action."

"I understand. This is your op. You're running it. But I must insist that Lorne and Borens come with us."

"And if they refuse?" Izuru pressed a full magazine of fat .50 cartridges into the Volg and set the safety, squinting through the optic mounted to the weapon.

"Then they refuse. I'm not forcing 'em. But I want solid blokes along with us. It can't just be us two. Aside Cyrano, there in't really anyone else left. Aimo's lost his sight. Ral can't come. Kat's gone. We're scraping the barrel a bit here."

"Nor will I force you," Izuru said, zipping up a black load-bearing vest over her jacket.

"I'm in all the way. That's how it is." Dusting off a bare ceramite cover, I passed it to Izuru. "I want you wearing proper hard cover. Can't be getting dinked in the head when the shrapnel starts flying."

Her disdain evident, Izuru set the cover on her head, leaving the chinstrap dangling.

Opening a map case attached to the officer's gear, I flipped open the lid and surveyed the map inside, detailing the exact layout of the Aptus district as well as surrounding boroughs. "This Zeke knob knew more about the AO than we did. I'll have that, I will." To go with the maps, I took a compass, and a pair of 10x50 binoculars with coated optics, of a higher magnification than the previous pair I had carried. Grenades, both fragmentation and coloured smoke, I shoved into pockets. A pair of pilot's gloves, part leather and fabric, I tugged on. How was it that Zeke was better equipped than we were? When he was the invading force, and we were the defenders.

"You good?" I asked after Izuru was fully fitted out with arms and ammunition.

"The Inquisition will tremble at my coming," Izuru said to herself, running her fingernails across her palm. Then, brighter, she nodded. "Mm-hm, I am."

"Well, bugger me." I found a single tin of canned meat from deep within the heap of ration bars and packets of slab. Zeke's main source of nutrition had come from ration bars, tasteless blocks of nothing that offered simple sustenance without the luxury of taste. Slab on the other hand. Well, rumour had it that it was made of recycled bits of flesh, ground down into a paste and heated together. It was only a rumour but still. Enough to illicit disgust in me.

"Hang about." I waved the canned meat at Izuru. "Want some? It's either that or dig into the rat bars."

Wordlessly, Izuru held up a fat tube of spreadable cheese she had found.

"Well, we can make something o' that, at least." Sitting down, I worked at the pull-tab of the metal container the meat was sealed away in. "Hate these."

Planting herself next to me, Izuru stared into the distance, waiting as I worked the pull-tab around and around, steadily peeling a thin strip of metal from the centre of the can. With the wounded's numbers slashed, anyone that could be moved had been moved inside and arranged around the upper floors. No-one wanted a second blood-bath. Being outside and away from the prejudiced officers did alleviate the stress a little. It pained me that Aimo could not come with us. Ral too. With Izuru though, I felt content and even near-happy. I wasn't sure what we were now, if not friends. Was there a word for it?

"I am glad that you are here with me," Izuru said, as if reading my mind.

"Likewise," I replied, grimacing when the pull-tab gave me trouble. As heartening as it was, there was a time and a place for sentimentality, and the grounds of the CCS was not it. Only out of sight of others would I lower my guard and the mask of hard professionalism I had adopted. That was the only way we could work. "Bugger," I muttered, snapping my fingers when I remembered something.

"Allow me." Izuru made to take the half-open can.

"No, no, I didn't cut myself. I've just remembered…"

"Remembered what?"

Springing to my feet, I said, "I told Cyrano I'd be with him in the OP in ten minutes. Completely forgot."

"Is he alone?"

"No, no, he's got Lorne and Borens with him, so…" Halting, I began to reconsider haring up to the OP when Izuru's face fell.

"Go to your friends. I understand if you value them more than I…"

Perturbed at the sadness, I returned to where I had sat, a little guilty. "No, number ten. You're up there with my mates. You and them all are here." I tapped my fist against the hard surface of my body armour where my heart was. "Most of all you now. Let's have some scran then we'll sort out the patrol."

A look of relief passing over her face, Izuru showed me a spoon she had found. There was only the one. No matter, I would gladly share my food with her.

Taking it in turns with the spoon, we scarfed down the cold meat and artificial-tasting cheese in silence. I continually traded glances with Izuru who would not keep her eyes off me. "S'rude to watch someone whilst they're eating," I objected, sucking the sticky stuff from my fingers, one by one. "Little bit o' etiquette. Whatever word it is."

"How eloquent of you." Izuru smiled coyly, passing me the spoon after wiping it clean.

"Eloqu…" I struggled over the word, stabbing at the dehydrated meat, to Izuru's amusement.

Laughing, she drew her knife and poked at me with the tip.

"Oi, give over." I clapped my hand to my side, underneath the edge of my body armour where the knife had pressed.

With unguarded slyness, Izuru gently pressed her blade against my ribs. Not hard enough to break the cotton but hard enough for it to hurt.

"Ow. Bloody hurts, that does." I pressed the flat of the exotic blade away, snorting irritably. Now was not the time for playing.

Replacing her knife in its sheathe, Izuru examined the squished tube. "Is this your standard source of nutrition? It tastes disgusting."

"'Bout the only time it tastes good is when you're coming down from a contact. You'll eat anything then, trust me."

The return of Cyrano and the Highlanders broke my train of thought. "Shit, Cyrano." I scrambled to my feet and hurried over to him. In a bizarre exchange, Cyrano was wearing Lorne's beret, and Lorne had Cyrano's fur hat on. The three grunts were quite at ease with each other. I almost felt like a stranger, oddly.

"Sorry, mate, I completely forgot about the OP."

"Ten minutes, you said." Cyrano shook his head in disapproval. "Were you fooling around with that—"

"Stickie!" Lorne exclaimed, bracing his stubber at his hip when he noticed Izuru. "It's that bloody stickie again."

"Alright, alright." I held up a restraining hand when Izuru leapt up and brought her Volg to bear in response. "Cyrano, help please."

"Stand easy, my lads." Cyrano stepped in beside me as both Lorne and Borens took up their slung arms.

"Captain, it's all in hand here." I gestured for Izuru to lower her carbine before anything kicked off.

"Captain?" Astonished, Lorne's grip on his stubber faltered slightly. "Larn, who is she?" Next to him, Borens had already lowered his M-36, confused at the revelation.

"Right, Highlanders, this stickie is the reason we were able to beat Nathaniel at Bastion Three-Three. She was getting trigger time with our autocannon, zipping Nathaniel so you could go hand-to-hand with him. This one's a real hardcore field grunt, just like us. She's an officer but she's no lifer. I have that on good authority, so I do. Number one."

"I don't believe it." Lorne looked at Cyrano. "What d'you say to that, horse-botherer?"

"Number one." Cyrano doffed Lorne's cover and handed it back. "This one's a real killer."

"Ye don't say."

"I do say. She's a stone-cold waster of every man named Zeke. She's wasted more Nathaniel today than you will in your entire life. I'd place my life in her hands any day."

Boren's dour face softened. Lorne too seemed to be having a change of heart now that Cyrano was speaking for Izuru. _Good one, pal_.

"I've got a mission that's perfect for you Highlanders. What d'you say to getting payback at Zeke?" I said.

"Number one." Lorne exchanged covers with Cyrano. "I'm up."

"Number one." I echoed.

"Yeah. But I'm doing it for you." Lorne nodded at Cyrano. "And I'm doing it for you." He turned to me. "I won't take no orders from no stickie."

"You won't 'ave to. You're takin' orders from me." I pointed a thumb at my chest. In turn I would be taking orders from Izuru. This I chose not to mention.

"A'ight."

"Whack-ho, lads. We're moving most kosh. Gear up over there. Grab some scran, hydrate, shit, have a tug o' the lad. Just do it iggery."

"James, what's happening?" Cyrano, befuddled, took me aside when Lorne and Borens went for a rummage in the piles.

"The station's being evacuated. Everyone that can walk is heading down to the airbase at eight tonight. Me and Izuru are going east."

"Why, what's east?"

"We're gonna take down the Inquisitor," I said simply. Lying at this stage would do me no favours.

"An Inquisitor…?" Cyrano's face went white. "Why?"

"He had Keladi killed. I'm helping Izuru go take him down."

"Take him down…" Putting a hand on my shoulder, Cyrano sighed. "James, did she talk you into this?"

"No, I'm choosing to do this. I owe her for Keladi, for Nemtess, for everything."

"Are you aware of the consequences of assaulting an Imperial official?"

"I shot an officer, Cyrano. I don't think I can get into any more trouble than I already am. But it can't just be me and Izuru. I want you and the Highlanders along. You're solid, you're dependable, you're who I want with me in a contact. I'm just asking – begging – you to do this for us. Then we're out of here for good."

"Mmm, I don't think it's me you will need to convince," Cyrano said darkly. "The Gellens will not like it."

"Then bring 'em around to it. They trust you. More 'an they do me anyway."

"I'll see what they think." Cyrano left abruptly and went to talk to the Highlanders, leaving me with Izuru.

"Got something for you here." Taking my Moses from its cotton holster, I unloaded the magazine and the chamber and offered the weapon to her, grinning. "I'm gonna ask you again. D'you need backup?"

It was a joy to see Izuru's scarred face light up. The way the corners of her mouth curved, and the narrowing of her twinkling eyes. "I remember once, when a very young soldier offered me the same token. A token of friendship between species. It was accepted without hesitation. Again it shall be accepted, only not out of friendship."

"Mm." I glanced down at my feet, feeling my face flush. "Sorry you couldn't put one between Macha's eyes. Maybe this time you can put one between the Inquisitor's eyes."

"It shall be so." Sliding the magazine into the weapon, Izuru chambered and engaged the safety.

"I keep it hammer back, safety on, and one in the chamber," I offered. "I'll find a Volg or something instead."

"A sensible procedure." Izuru tucked the pistol into a holster attached to the front of her vest.

"I tire of these exchanges now. Let us be away."

"Okay, I just want to go over the map and patrol layout first."

"What is to go over?"

"I want to organise the patrol."

"Why? I shall lead—"

"Izuru, you can't lead, you're the patrol commander. If we get contact then the point man is the first one to get hit. That's why I'm running point." I jerked a thumb at myself for emphasis. "It'll be me, you, Cyrano, and the Highlanders on tail-end."

Izuru propped the sliding stock of her Volg into her hip and curled a hand around the magazine well. "I do not like that arrangement."

"I'm not letting anyone else go first, least of all you. I'm not having you go down to some random Zeke in the street."

A loud exclamation from Lorne interrupted us.

"Inquisitor?"

"Oh, shit," I muttered.

"Crackpots, both o' ya." Lorne rolled over, glaring at Izuru but simultaneously slapping me on the shoulder and grinning.

"Oi, he's a complete bastard, this bloke. Worse than any staff NCO. Me and the captain got a personal score to settle too. If you want to get even with Zeke, Lorne, then you come with us. I'm not forcing you."

"Eh, seems better than running anyhow. Bloody sick o' running, aren't we, Ben?"

Borens nodded and offered a grunt of agreement.

"So, you're in then?"

Pleasantly surprised at the Highlander's willingness to accompany us, I gave a curt nod of approval when Lorne and Borens said, in unison. "For Don Tsak."

"For Don Tsak. Now grab your brass, we're moving most ricky-tick."

"Oh, 'ello." Lorne focused on something over my shoulder. "Them cooks want a slice o' payback too."

"What?" I turned around to see Gale and Azar approaching. Immediately, Izuru's face turned sour.

"Something abrew, fellas?" Gale spread his hands in confusion. Azar just glowered.

"We're dealing in payback from 'ere on, Cookie," I said. "Ain't no place for persons other than grunts 'ere."

"Number ten. We want in, Larn," Gale said firmly.

"Hang about, they don't even know what the mission is yet," Lorne said.

"You seem eager enough," Cyrano muttered.

Out of the corner of my eye, Izuru was silently shaking her head, against the two cooks joining the party. Though I didn't really know either of them, or even particularly liked them, Azar especially. Both were Nemtess veterans, Rakka survivors, and both had emerged from the chaos of the bastion and the CCS. They had to be worth something in a brass-exchange then.

"Scurm and Weld were one of us." Gale pointed between himself, Cyrano, and I. "You know us lot. The Nemtess bunch. We've all lost friends. And I'm sick of running."

"Oh!" Azar, yelping suddenly, went white when he noticed Izuru.

 _Does he recognise her?_ I wondered, starting for my Gerax when Azar took his M-36 into his hands.

"No, not you again," Azar gabbled, stepping backwards in fear.

"Alright, calm down, Azar. This one's on our side." Gale jerked a thumb at Izuru. "Helped us off Nemtess, this one did."

"What's that?" Lorne and Borens gave Izuru a funny look.

I stepped in before too many questions were blurted out. "Okay, lads. Anyone not going out with us, shove off. We're on the clock here."

"Aah, we're in." Gale grinned. "Better than hanging around here anyhow."

"Fine." I caught Izuru's eye. "Dig into the piles and take anything you need. We're running light kit."

"Sergeant." Izuru took me aside for a word. "I do not approve of those two humans accompanying us."

Throwing a quick glance at the two cooks, both of them busying themselves with acquiring ammunition, I said, "look, they were both at Nemtess, okay. They're solid. Azar might be a massive cunt but he – both – are steady in a brass-exchange. There's no-one else that will come."

Her nose wrinkling at the free-flowing foul language I readily spouted, Izuru flung a suspicion-filled look at Azar. "That one is self-serving and amoral."

"Look, I told ya. We're a bunch o' scumbags, Izuru—"

"Enough. I will not hear of it." Izuru's tone turned nasty. "And the other…"

A hearty shout from Lorne drew my attention away from Izuru. "Larn, try this one out for size, why dontcha?"

"What?" I looked on disapprovingly when Lorne heaved a stubber quite unlike his into view. The weapon had a thick stock, a very short barrel, and a round pan magazine sitting on top of the all-metal body.

"Scoba Gas Operated. Good for point duty."

"Fine, fine." I tried waving Lorne away but he came over nonetheless, toting the stubber like a newborn child.

"'Ere, get your chops 'round this." Lorne heaved the Scoba into my reluctant arms.

"Aw, bloody hell, it's heavy." I grunted, tugging the sling over my shoulder. "Right, you can have my Whupper then. Take the bandolier too. I'm a walking arms dealer here."

"Oi-oi." Borens pointed at something. "Scribe wants a picture."

"What?" Turning, I noticed Joe Herle aiming one of his pict-capturing instruments at us. A grin was on his face.

"What 'ave you done?" I started angrily. "You've better not 'ave bloody gone and taken my picture."

"No, of course not." Joe laughed. "I took all of you."

"Gimme that." I made to stride over to him and dash the camera onto the ground, stamping on it for good measure. A hand however held me back. Instead of Izuru, it was Lorne who restrained me.

"Nah, leave 'em be, mate. I want us Highlanders in the papers. Once in a lifetime that. Gotta make a name for ourselves somehow."

"But…" I was more worried about mine and Izuru's faces appearing on the front page of the Cadian Enquirer, what with our criminal records being somewhat known to the authorities. What did Izuru think of all this anyway?

The ranger though had slunk off. Possibly her mood had been worsened at the sudden free-for-all the group had become. Was she really taking it that hard?

"Where did…?" Cyrano, a little more aware than the others were, looked over at me, bemused at our companion's sudden departure.

"Dunno. Don't matter now. Oi, Cyrano, hang onto this, will you?" I pawed my Gerax off to Cyrano, leaving me with only the Scoba. Quickly scanning the map, I decided on taking the quickest route towards the river which was directly east of us, across the Aptus district, and the neighbouring Karkuss district. The zig-zagging streets bore no names, only numbers which did not appear to conform to any obvious pattern. "Here. This cathedral is our waypoint. Call it Waypoint Alpha. Once there, we'll reconvene and I'll plot us a route to the road bridge across the Luten," I said to the gathered grunts.

"How d'you know that's a cathedral?" Azar looked dubious.

"What's the biggest building you're gonna find in an Imperial city? Bloody place o' worship, innit. If Zeke isn't there, which I bloody hope he isn't, then some of our lads are gonna be holding it down. Right, we're moving out now. It's about 150 yards down this street behind you guys, then we turn right. Don't worry about losing your way, I'll be taking point. Cyrano, behind me. Cooks, then you. Highlanders, you're keeping our arse covered. Nice and quiet now, lads. On me."

* * *

Dusk was falling over Aptus as we started our journey east. Hemmed in by the tall buildings before, the sounds of fighting going on elsewhere in the city reached out ears. The deep sigh of artillery, sharp pop of heavy automatic weapons, and the lighter crackle of small-arms fire blended into one another so much that there was not a single moment of silence, Zeke having stolen it and made it his own. Closer to us, buildings burned, the heavy roar of flames rising many stories inside the hab-blocks and AA towers that made up most of the structures in Aptus. The air was thick with bright embers and grey ash, carried around in clouds that made the eyes smart. I was well versed with the scent now. The scent of death that invited itself across each and every threshold in the city, infecting everything with its sinister taint. Disturbingly, the novelty of it had worn off. I had accepted it as mundane, something that happened every day now.

Scouring the gutted swell of buildings, I rested my Scoba on my knee and listened. Having called a halt for a moment, I looked back down the uneven mess of rubble at where the others waited. Squatting ten feet behind me, Cyrano shrugged, reading me with little effort. Izuru would turn up soon. She had merely gone off in a huff and needed a little time to cool down. The low drone of an aircraft overhead, unseen by us, predated a strange white cloud that fluttered down from the cloud-covered sky.

 _Leaflets?_ Swiping a crumpled piece of yellow paper, I paid it a cursory glance before letting it drop in contempt. This was Nemtess all over again. _Surrender – Survive!_ The leaflet read. _Men and women of Cadia. The game is up._ _Let your talents be wasted no longer on propping up the so-called God-Emperor's decaying corpse. Lay down your arms and join us. We fight for one another, for the brothers and sisters whom we share our foxholes with, day in, day out…_

It went on. I need not describe the details further, only that it would make good arse-wipe. Looking back at Cyrano who was quietly chortling at the leaflets, I winked and stood up, leading the patrol on. A short while later I was met with a black cloud of smoke coming from a burning fuel tank. With the wind blowing southwards, the worst of the smoke and flame was billowing across the road.

 _Do we, or do we not get through?_ I asked myself rhetorically. Imagining Izuru was waiting for me on the other side, I sprinted through, ignoring the great heat that threatened to burn me to a frazzle as well as the thirty-pound weight of the Scoba. Disappointingly, Izuru was not awaiting me on the other side, rather I came upon a great concrete pillar supporting a raised roadway.

 _Stairs_. I noticed a flight of steps across a field of junk, leading up to the road above. Waving at Cyrano and the others for quiet after each man had made his way through the inferno, I aimed a finger at the foot of the steps and whispered, "I'm going up there for a dekko. Stay here."

Exchanging my Scoba for the lighter Gerax, I tiptoed across the waste ground and scaled the dirty concrete, tiptoeing up to the pockmarked carriageway. My breath was stolen by the towering sight that dominated the eastern horizon and the many, many columns of smoke that rose from the ravaged, burning city. Squinting at the cathedral through the Gerax's four-power scope, I realised it was much closer than I had anticipated, the cathedral really was the tallest building around. This one was like no cathedral I had ever seen – which wasn't many really – but it stuck nonetheless. Black, unlike the much lower structures surrounding it, the cathedral was really one large block with two square towers on the western end; our end. Both spires had received serious damage, cutting down their already monstrous height. What struck me as different were the gun-turrets bristling the outer buttresses. Barrels of varying calibre, from the lightest bolters and autocannons, to the largest triple-A cannons, the cathedral was really more of a fortress than a place of worship; at least that was how it appeared outwardly. Turning my attention away from the monstrosity, I closed my eyes and listened. With a sinking heart, I heard the rattle and squeak of treads. The roar of vehicle engines was dulled somewhat by the buildings but was still quite audible. Every so often an angry crack of a tank cannon reached my ears. Disparagingly only scattered small-arms fire offered any meaningful reply. I bet Zeke was blowing up every hab he came across, regardless of whether it held combatants or not. Extermination, I think was a better word than combat. An optimist, blindly devout in the Imperial faith, would have said that we were meeting Zeke in glorious combat and holding our ground. A realist would have not viewed the proceedings through such tinted glasses. It was quite plain as to our – and every other soldiers' – situation. We were losing.

Demoralised by the scene I had witnessed from the roadway, I slipped back down below the surface. As inconvenient a place as it was, I felt my bowels moving, and stopped mid-flight to relieve myself. _This is for stealing our vehicles and shooting at us, Cadians_ , I thought, unzipping my trousers and working them down around my ankles. Perching on top of the concrete parapet, I directed my naked backside over the edge and prepared to let fly with a squishy brown insult against all Cadians.

"Naked and vulnerable," a voice whispered.

Jumping, I closed my eyes in fright when Izuru gracefully lowered herself from the stairs above, jumping lithely between flights, swinging down to land on both feet. Raising a finger in annoyance, I tugged my trousers back up, not having loosed a single round, and fastened my belt. That was twice Izuru's presence had interrupted me now. I hoped she would not make a habit of it. I was still dying for a shit.

"Where the hell have you been?" I whispered urgently, re-seating my wonky web belt and fitting the two clasps together underneath my body armour.

"Performing the tasks your eyes and ears should be," Izuru replied mysteriously, her voice equally low.

"You're a one, aren't you?" I tutted.

"I like to think that I am an individual amongst the many, yes."

"Okay. Are you with us now? Or are you gonna go off and sulk again?"

"Sulk?" Raising her eyebrows, Izuru folded her arms and barred my way. "A human weakness. One we do not share."

"Alright then." Drawing my combat knife, I made the gentlest of stabs at Izuru's belly, little more than a prod. At contact, Izuru's lip curled in amusement, and she let me past. The smirk she wore remained in place and her eyes bored into my back as I descended the stairs and hurried back to the where the others were waiting. Cyrano, in stark contrast to Azar, further back, smiled and bowed his head when Izuru fell into formation in front of him and behind me. _Well, you'll just have to live with it, all of you._ I for one was glad that our best warrior was with us again. _Lethal, lonely, lovely_ , I thought in a moment of absentmindedness. Disgruntled, I pushed away the dreamy vision and set my mind on the path ahead, remembering the unseen threat of Zeke, lingering so close that we could hear him in the surrounding streets.

A prickle of unease brought me to a halt in the space between rows of ruined habs a short way on. Worried I had led the party on a wrong turn, I pored over the map, having to hold it inches from my nose to see the markings in the fading light.

"Danger," Izuru, ten paces behind me, whispered.

Her words were followed by a faint pop and a throaty roar. Bursting from a narrow side-street, not fifty yards ahead, a thick jet of burning fuel blocked our passage. Eyes widening in shock, I opened my dry mouth, only for the heat to suck my breath away. Shuffling backwards on my haunches, I tucked the map away and raised my right hand, madly signalling the others to withdraw from the street and take cover in the buildings. Remaining in place, facing the direction the unseen flamer had fired from, I heard a scattering of stones and a crunch of boots as the grunts tore to the side. Readying myself to bolt, I saw Izuru had not moved.

"Izuru, get the fu—" Incensed at her inaction, I yanked her to her feet and dragged her across the street and through a narrow hole in a wall. "Everybody, shush!"

Letting Izuru flop uselessly, I hugged the wall, mimicking what everyone else was doing. Lorne alone had his eye to an opening and could see out into the street. "What d'you see?" I whispered anxiously. "Lorne?"

"Fire. Fire and…"

Further roars as the jellied promethium was fired inside buildings down the street, the howl of the flames carrying to our ears. Izuru jumped as individual rifle shots, clear cracks punctuating the spreading fires, sent bolts of fear into our hearts. Ignorant as to why she had become all twitchy, I reached over and rested my hand on hers discreetly. "Stand-by," was all I could think to say to the others. The collective impotence that accompanied the shock of encountering the flamer was damning, so much that everyone else refused to move, even long after the Zeke patrol had wandered away.

Listening to the ragged breathing, I scrambled over to Cyrano and poked him into switching my Gerax for the Scoba. "Come on, we're moving out. Let's get to the cathedral before it gets dark." Though I spoke with conviction, I had really no idea whose hands the cathedral was in. If Zeke had occupied it then we were sunk. And it would only be a matter of time before we were cornered, pinned down, and captured. The worry persisted even when the broad bulk of the cathedral was in sight. By this time, Izuru's fear had dissolved, with her usual unflappable self returning as if nothing had happened. It was with an assured alertness and confidence that she covered her sector, the same as every other man was doing. To our credit, the flamer-equipped Zeke patrol had been the only close encounter we had. Izuru, to her credit, could cannily predict Zeke's movements through sound and vibrations in the ground, even with the far-off tremble from Zeke's heavy guns sending jolts through the earth every so often. I could only admire a being so much, and I counted myself lucky that I had her on my side; so useful she was.

"Cyrano!" I whispered as loudly as I dared, beckoning the larger man up to where I perched near the crest of a steep slope of rubble. Against my orders, Izuru followed.

"That's it?" Cyrano paid the cathedral a glance through the Gerax's scope.

"A shrine of the so-called God-Emperor of Mankind," Izuru muttered, peering through her Volg's rail-mounted optics.

"Careful, Izuru," Cyrano said gently. "Many of us here are believers. I advise that you offer respect to our deity in his place of worship."

"Apologies. I spoke out of turn there. Let us move closer."

I rested a hand on Izuru's shoulder, stopping her from going first. "Oi. You're not going in there. They could have more 'an a dozen guns covering the front doors."

"Well, how would you proceed?" Izuru looked at me expectantly, her eyes glowing faintly, half-hidden underneath her cover.

"Simple." Winking at her, I tugged the sling of my Scoba off my shoulder and walked, bare-handed, out into the wide-open space.

"James." Izuru grasped at my trouserleg plaintively. "Come back!"

"You bloody madman!" Cyrano gasped, his gloved fingers digging into the rubble, scrunching up a small pile and throwing it after me. "Get back here."

"How else we gonna find out…" I muttered, more annoyed at my friend's protests than any eyes watching my movements. Keeping my arms spread, hands held low, I licked my drying lips, running my eyes over the bullet-riddled walls. The three pairs of doors at ground level were all bolted shut and looked solid, even with the numerous dents, dings and scrapes they had received from past assaults. Spent brass rattled against each other, the cases colliding loudly when I inadvertently kicked them ahead of me. Clenching my gloved fist, I slammed the side of it against the thick wood, banging on it several times. _Throne, this is stupid. But how else are we supposed to know who holds the cathedral?_

"C'mon, Zeke, show us your mug," I said, peering about in the semi-dark. Knocking again, I stepped back a pace when the righthand door shuddered as bolts were retracted on the inside. _About bloody time._ Opening inwards a crack, someone on the inside tossed a primed smoke grenade out. Gushing hot, grey smoke, the cylinder clattered against the stone as it rolled towards my feet. "Oh for…" Scooping the bomb up, I hurled it irritably somewhere else. "Come on, lads, I'm on your side. S'no way to treat a sarn't now."

"Shut up and stay there." An M-36 muzzle was aimed through the crack. "Are you alone?"

"No. I've got a patrol waiting out there, in the streets. We want to come in."

Hands hauled the door back and grunts clad in soot-stained khaki and green body armour burst out. Two grunts – to my relief, Cadians – covered the nearby buildings whilst two more grabbed me by the arms and catapulted me inside the gloomy interior, quickly frisking me for weapons, relieving me of the Volg stub pistol I had taken in the space of my Moses and the grenades I carried.

"Cripes." I gaped at the smashed furniture and fallen columns spread all along the nave. So long it was that the far end was lost in shadow. Occupying the nave and surrounding galleries were hundreds of Cadians, their body armour and helmets, adorned with a white Aquila, instantly recognisable. Above my head, light was cast through holes in the ceiling, the faint shafts not nearly long enough to reach the dim floor two-hundred feet below.

"Aw, thank god you're Cadian," I said loudly. I never thought I'd hear myself say that!

"Shut up." An M-36 was jabbed into the small of my back and a firm hand placed upon my shoulder. "Walk, traitor."

"Traitor?" I grunted in dismay as I was thrust along the central aisle, nearly slipping over on the patches of smooth slabs that had escaped the dusting of rubble and other detritus that had fallen from the ceiling. "Whoa, steady on, lads."

"Silence, heretic!" The same commanding voice barked.

 _Bloody uptight Cadians._ I threw a malcontent look over my shoulder at the three dirty Cadian guardsmen who all had their M36s pointed at my back. One guardsman was even fiddling with his bayonet. _Ain't gonna need that, son_ , I grinned, shoving my hands in my pockets, finding amusement at the Cadian's overzealousness.

Guiding me with not-so-gentle brushes from their stocks, the Cadians manoeuvred me into a small side-chamber which was situated below a massive set of organs, mounted high on the wall above. Much further along the nave now, there were statues of fallen Imperial heroes, both regular humans and Marines, many of them having lost appendages due to debris landing on them from above. Such damage had not been ignored inside the side-chamber as a large Aquila which had fallen from its wall mount was now sitting back upright; shiny and proud once more. Expecting a broad, ugly face of a commissar, I instead was met with a broad, ugly face of a warrant officer. Eyeing me beadily, the WO left the vox set he was monitoring and came over, nodding at my captors to disperse.

"Name and rank, Guardsman," the WO said. Rasp, I think more suited him, for his voice was uncannily low and throaty, suggesting a lifetime of smoking or some nasty throat illness in the past.

"Larn. Sarn't. C Company, 144th Battalion, Eighteen Brigade, One Corps, sir."

"Was he alone?" the WO asked my escorts.

"No, sir, he says he was with a patrol. They want entry to this holy place, sir," one of the Cadians replied stonily.

"Tags. Papers." The WO held out a meaty hand. "Larn, Arvin J," he read aloud after I had handed both over. "You One-forty-four Batt?"

"Yes, sir."

"144th Battalion aren't in this AO. You're lying, Sarn't."

"Number ten, sir. I'm C Company, One-four-four Batt. Our HQ is in Kasr Jark. My company got cut off. They closed the gates. We was stranded outside. My acting OC, Second Lieutenant Corta, he brought us down here to Kraf. We was in contact with Zeke and Nathaniel at Bastion Three-Three. We withdrew. Zeke then hit us again at a casualty station about two klicks west of here. We repulsed his assault this morning. By now the CCS will 'ave been evacuated, sir. They're pulling back to the airbase. It's a general retreat, sir."

Listening, his face a blank slate, the WO leant back against a table and folded his arms. "Alright, Sarn't, we'll bring your people in. How many are out there?"

"Six, sir."

"Very well, you can stay. Just don't obstruct my operation. We are holding this outpost until we are ordered otherwise."

"I understand, sir."

"Do you, Sarn't?"

"Maybe, sir. I don't know the big picture. Are you…?"

"Nine Company, First Battalion, First Guards Brigade. Chaos Space Marines kicked us out of Bastion Three-Four and Three-Five. Company OC, commissar, troop commanders, most SNCOs, all KIA. By the Emperor, it's a mess."

Nodding in feigned sympathy, I pointed at the vox set sitting on the table. "Any recent gen, sir? Do we know what's happening?"

"Nothing but praise for the Emperor and news of our overwhelming successes against the enemy over the net." The WO grimaced. "No word with anyone for the past forty-eight hours. Every runner I've sent out has either got lost or killed."

"Tough shit, sir."

"In the name of the Emperor, yes."

Footsteps outside came from whom I believed were my friends. I was disappointed however when a guardsman appeared, his crisp snap to attention further dampening my spirits.

"Sir, the Chaos foe approaches with one of our own. He brings a message."

"Northern breach, Guardsman?" The WO flipped his cover over in his hands and set it on his shaved dome, taking his M-36 from the table.

"Yes, sir."

"Right. Sarn't Larn, follow me."

Following in the warrant officer's wake, we made a sharp left turn where the cross-part of the cathedral cut through the nave and started up a gentle incline where parts of the cathedral's inner structure had given way underneath bombardment, forming a slope of debris. It was half-way up towards the great opening blasted in the north-facing part of the cross when I heard a voice calling to me.

"Cyrano!" I cupped my hands and returned the greeting. My six companions were down in the nave, under escort from the Cadians. On seeing me, Cyrano and Izuru turned in my direction but were dissuaded by the guardsmen raising the butts of their lasguns to strike.

"Oi, Guardsmen, those are my people." I scooted back down to ground level, intent on confronting them, never mind I was unarmed and shorter than the heavyset guardsmen.

"Sir?" One of the guardsmen, ignoring me, looked to the warrant officer.

"They're alright, Guardsman. Let them up."

 _Not a bad sort this WO_. I grinned at the Cadians who were forced to return our weapons, looking on in satisfaction before clambering up after the warrant officer. Reaching the yawning hole in the wall, I was held back by a Cadian that was part of a fireteam spread along a gallery and appearing to ring the entire cathedral. Many firing ports had been erected, some only just wide enough for muzzles to be pushed through. A few larger openings had been made for bolter teams.

The warrant officer was kneeling beside a frail, sickly-looking Cadian who was being tended by a female medic. Not close enough to be privy to the conversation, I stood on tiptoes, striving to hear what was being said. My wish was granted when the WO patted the man on the shoulder and came over to me. "The enemy will level the cathedral with tanks and rockets if we have not surrendered by dawn tomorrow."

"Okay, sir."

"Also…" The WO glanced back at the prisoner. "Four men will be executed and their bodies desecrated if we do not send that man back."

"Sir, I must insist this guardsman remain here on medical concerns," the female medic spoke. "His fever is rising."

"I'll go, sir," I heard myself saying. Not entirely sure why I did.

"You?"

"I'm not One Guards, sir. You won't be losing anyone else."

"Sergeant!" Cyrano hissed, at odds with my sudden decision.

Casting back at my comrades, I saw Cyrano and Izuru's agitation. Izuru most of all looked like a ghost; she had turned deathly white. It was clear this was not the direction she had wanted to go. But she could do nothing but give me a look of silent desperation. _Please, don't go_.

"Are you sure, Sarn't?" the WO said.

"Yes, sir. Captain?" I looked to Izuru.

Clamping her jaw shut, Izuru managed an awkward nod. Throne, I hoped the gamble I had taken paid off. I very much wanted to see her again.

"If you're fine with your NCO going out there, ma-am, then I've got no problem," the warrant officer, never turning a hair at the reveal of the officer's rank, said. "Right, drop your gear, Sarn't."

 _Yeah, I bet you wouldn't object to that_ , I thought with a hint of resentment, quickly divesting myself of cover, armour and ammunition belt.

"Tell Zeke, if he wants this cathedral, he will have to fight for it."

* * *

Blindfolded, I was led down a trench by Cadians and helped over a barricade that separated the lines. Stumbling forwards, I heard a thud of boots and felt rough hands take my arms and lift me into the air. Disoriented by the disappearance of the ground underneath me, I held my breath as I was rushed along, very quickly carried down a set of stairs and into a brightly-lit cellar where my bearers dumped me back on my feet. Tottering on the spot, dizzy at the frenetic movement, I blinked rapidly when my blindfold was removed, my sight blurry. Packed into the cellar were Zekes, a horde of very grubby, very tired-looking men and women. Not too different from us then, funnily enough.

"You are not the man I sent to the Imperials," a Zeke officer, a young man in his mid-twenties, said with suspicion in his voice. "Why the subterfuge?"

Regaining my composure, I said, "sir, the man you sent was very ill. An Imperial medic advised the commanding officer that forcing him to return would be detriment to his health. I volunteered to go in his stead to deliver the officer's reply, sir."

"…I see." The Zeke, pausing for thought, nodded. "I see. Well, you are a brave man to hand yourself over willingly. Has the Imperial officer considered my demand?"

"Yes, sir. The Imperial officer's reply is strictly negative. If you want the cathedral, sir, you'll 'ave to fight for it. They'll never surrender, sir. They're fighting for their home."

Leaning closer, a frown upon his unlined face, the officer said, "but you are not a Cadian, are you? Your eyes, your complexion, your accent is different. Why do you fight alongside them then? If not for your home then do you simply fight for the false Emperor out of piety alone?"

"More than the Emperor, sir. I've got pals along with me. They're worth more to me than the Emperor." I shrugged matter-of-factly. "That's just the way it is, sir. We're not all blind followers o' the faith. We're just blokes doing a job."

Not even attempting to hide his surprise, the officer sat down upon a wooden stool and offered me a second stool to sit on. "Some food? A drink perhaps?"

"I'm fine, sir," I said bluntly.

"I know. Fraternisation. But, I will say that you look quite terrible. War is a nasty business. Saps the body and the soul. I will fetch something for you."

"Thank you, sir," I replied without looking the man in the eye. Even if he was enemy, it would be rude to refuse his unconditional offer of food. The impertinent gurgling in my stomach was not helping. That scran I had shared with Izuru had gone through me like nothing else, and I now felt hungrier than ever.

"You know, I do this to save lives. I am not in the business of, uh, extermination, as so many of my fellow officers are. But I also do not wish to tarnish the honour of the Cadian Shock Troops. They are a prestigious unit. And they would not want it known that they went down with nary a struggle against the hated enemy."

"Then why are you 'ere, sir? If you're not going to exterminate us."

"You look tired, hungry, young man."

The disturbing thing about the Zekes and the open-faced officer before me was that they were so normal, so completely unlike what I had imagined Zeke would be up close. Those fire-belching phantoms in the streets seemed like a distant memory, a nightmare. _Why are we fighting other people just like us? Where are the Chaos-tainted madmen I imagined these people would be?_

"As much as you would like to believe that we are monsters. I want you to observe the reality and understand that I have no personal desire to harm you or your comrades-in-arms."

"I can't speak for the Imperials, sir," I said. "Not sure they'd see it that way. All you are to them is enemy."

"No, no, of course not. Open minds are a rarity in the Imperium." The officer smiled. "You look young for your rank - corporal, is it?"

"Well… I was sergeant, sir. I've – I've been up and down the ladder quite a few times."

"Such is the price of an open mind in this age." The officer invited a short-statured Zeke bearing a small sack of compo forward. "If there is to be a battle tomorrow, which I do not doubt. I would have you eat well beforehand."

"I can't, sir…"

"Why, yes you can. I would further ask you to carry my compliments to the commanding officer. Now, be off with you. Rest and eat. Tomorrow will be trying on all of us."

Overjoyed that I was being allowed to return to friendly territory, I nevertheless kept a tight lid upon my elation. Bearing the sack in my arms, I was blindfolded once more and carried back over to our lines. Surprised remarks followed me as I hurried back through the trenches and up to the opening in the cathedral wall. The warrant officer was on me instantly. "Well, what did the enemy say?"

"Just that there would be a battle tomorrow. He wanted me to pass on his compliments to you too, sir."

"Godless scum," the WO spat. "I do not acknowledge this enemy of mankind as a serving officer, but a pestilence, fit only for the cleansing flame."

"He didn't seem like a bad sort, sir."

"I will not have it, Sarn't." The WO swept away, side-stepping down the slope to the cathedral floor. "Do not be deceived by the lies of the enemy. His tongue bears only false promises and a feigned humility. Make sure you remember that."

"Roger that, sir," I replied mechanically, shaking my head in disdain at the same time. Discreetly, I began sliding the smaller boxes of compo into the empty respirator sack I wore around the back of my belt in case the warrant officer ordered me to hand over the Zeke scran.

"Runner!" The WO barked, signalling a fireteam that was covering a vehicle-sized hole in the south-facing part of the cross.

An odd clacking from beneath the floor brought me to a halt to listen. "What's that?" I wondered aloud.

"Catacombs underneath the cathedral lead to sewers and Emperor-knows where. We're digging through the wall in the cellar to give us a way out if things go south."

"Right. So how many are holding this place down, sir?" I asked as a lightly-equipped guardsman rushed over to the WO.

"Uh, there's about 240 of us. Shilko, I want you to go as far back as you need to find any intact unit with officers. Beg – get down on your knees if you have to – just bring me some relief." Turning back to me, the WO continued. "Mostly small-arms and bolters here. Any ordnance in the gun turrets in the buttresses got expended on aircraft in the first week of the invasion. There's been zero resupply for them. Bloody disgrace." Returning his attention to Shilko, the WO said, "you find an officer, you tell him or her that the Chaos foe plans to assault the cathedral in the Karkuss district at dawn tomorrow with tanks and rocket artillery. It is absolutely vital that we receive reinforcement before that time. Do you understand, Guardsman?"

"Yes, sir," Shilko, his square jaw set firmly, held his M-36 in both hands and rocked back on the balls of his feet, readying himself to break cover. "The Emperor protects."

"If Cadia is to stand, then you must be the one to keep her upright. Off with you, Guardsman."

Tensing, Shilko dashed outside, immediately adopting a zig-zag pattern as he crossed the waste.

"Come on, Shilko," a nearby guardsman muttered. "Cadia stands."

"Cadia stands," the others echoed.

 _Cadia stands?_ Bemused, I alone had stayed quiet but still watched the fleeing figure with baited breath. Just as Shilko was about to disappear from view, a torrent of green tracer-fire scythed through the street, catching Shilko mid-body, the echo bouncing around the district. A puff of red mist exploded from the Cadian's torso, the force of the rounds perforating his body armour and putting him on the ground. Callous to the now-wounded guardsman, I watched as automatics worked through the area where Shilko had fallen, more than a dozen times stitching his body even after it had stopped moving.

"Godless scum," the WO muttered. "I think it's better if you spent the night with us, Sarn't."

"Sir, we're heading in the direction of the river…"

"In the Emperor's name, why?" The WO pulled me away from any eavesdropping ears and back to the nave. "Are you trying for the Citadel? The void shield got knocked out early this morning. The enemy has been directing his firepower on the east bank now, that's why it's been so quiet around here. Do you know the saying, out of the frying pan and into the fire?"

"Yes, sir."

Tutting, the WO pulled a face. "Oh, well. I don't care what you and your unit do. Six men won't make much of a difference against tanks. Of if they simply want to bury us alive underneath their artillery."

"Sorry, sir. Wish we could be of more use."

"No, you have been useful in your own way, Sarn't. Thank you for sticking your neck out for us." The WO, smiling grimly, clasped my hand in his paw and shook. "I'll be having those field rations too, Sarn't. Or would you prefer to dispose of them yourself?"

"Sir, please—"

"It is against our policy to accept supplies from the enemy. Hand them over for destruction." The WO extended a hand for the sack I carried, eyeing me sternly.

Conscious of the bulging respirator pouch hanging from my belt, I thrust the sack at the warrant officer. "Weren't hungry anyway, sir."

"The Emperor will keep you satiated. Pray tonight for his guidance."

"Yes, sir."

Stepping backwards, I waited for the warrant officer to turn his back. _The Emperor will keep me satiated!_ What I bore in secret would help keep me satiated, not prayer.

* * *

Scouring the groups of Cadians clustered around tiny fires made up of chairs and books, I looked for familiar faces, non-Cadian uniforms, an odd fur hat anywhere. It was the two berets of the Highlanders I spotted first. Lorne and Borens were chatting animatedly with the guardsmen, exchanging cigarettes and cracking jokes. Unexpectedly, Lorne sprang to his feet, grinning from ear to ear when he recognised me. "James! Thought you'd given yourself to Zeke."

"Nah, mate. Zeke couldn't stand me. Took one look and kicked me right back here."

Lorne guffawed and slapped a packet of cigarettes into my hand. "Aw, you're a proper Highlander now, pal."

"Cheers." Shaking Lorne's hand, I gave him one of the packages of biscuits. "You and Borens might even make proper Cannons someday."

"Hah, no thanks. We're Gellen Highlanders. Go toe-to-toe with Nathaniel and win."

"Take it easy, you two."

In a similar position with a cluster of Cadian cooks and other non-teeth personnel were Gale and Azar. Beaming, Gale accepted the packet of biscuits from me, shaking my hand and rubbing my shoulder warmly. No such greeting was offered by Azar. His only reaction was to look surprised at my unexpected showing, under the impression I was now a permanent guest of Zeke. With only Izuru and Cyrano unaccounted for, I began asking individual Cadians whether they had seen either of them.

"You seen a big man, beard, fur hat?" I tried a foursome of sappers, receiving a pointed finger in reply directing me up a steep flight of stairs just off the nave. "Guardsmen. Big man, fur hat?" I asked as I passed men sitting hunched over on the stairs. Thunder rumbled outside. Zeke's big guns delivering 150-pound warheads over our heads and into the Citadel.

The higher I climbed, the fewer Cadians there were, most preferring to take shelter nearer ground level. Coming out in a narrow, arched gallery – a triforium – I rested a hand on a pillar and peered over the edge, looking down on the floor 100 feet below, marvelling at the sheer scale of the Imperial architecture. Wandering around the circuit, I found a second set of stairs, narrow enough that only one man could ascend them comfortably. From the floor above, soft laugher could be heard. _There you are_. Smiling, I took the steps two at a time, feeling a cool breeze on my face. A second, shallower gallery, ran in the same square circuit as its sister did on the floor below. The slim figure of Izuru and the broad bulk of Cyrano were standing and sitting respectively near a gash in the wall. Leaning against a torn corner of masonry, perilously close to the edge, Izuru had her arms folded and was staring out at the orange glow blanketing the city to the south. Cyrano, a little more cautious, was sitting cross-legged and further back, also watching the scene outside. At my coming, Cyrano threw back his head and laughed in much the same manner as Lorne had. "Zeke would not have you?"

"Number one. They thought I was a wretched farmer and sent me on my way." I smiled widely, tossing Cyrano my last packet of biscuits and going to check on my Gerax which Cyrano had leant against the wall next to his M-36.

"I will take my leave." Nodding pleasantly at Izuru, Cyrano picked up his Kantrael and descended the stairs.

Pretending to fiddle with the Gerax's optics, I looked across at Izuru, concerned at her silence. "Hey, everything alright?"

Stepping away from the opening, Izuru, her face a blank canvas, knelt beside the gear she had left on the landing, also pretending to fiddle with something. Sensing her withholding herself, I left the Gerax where it was and offered her my hand, inviting her to walk with me along the gallery.

"It was a gamble. I took a risk, Izuru. It's not my first." Squeezing her hand, I continued, "look, we do it every day. _Every_ day, Izuru. It's how we live. If we don't take risks, we fail. And if we fail, we die. Now, I don't know how I've made it this far but it's not been 'cause I did the sensible thing. I've done stupid things, things I'm not proud of, and some things I'm downright ashamed of. But it's what we do."

Further along the gallery, far enough for it to be out of the wind, we stopped in a circular alcove and sat down upon a cushioned seat. It was after a drawn-out silence spent with our gazes lingering elsewhere that Izuru spoke. "Promise me…"

Listening, I shifted closer and took her hand in mine.

"This willingness to step into the jaws of danger on a whim will be your destruction." Lifting her eyes, Izuru passed her other hand across my cheek, tracing the outline of my jaw. "To bear witness to the tragedy will invoke within me such heartbreak, that I would willingly cast my soul into oblivion."

"No. _No_." Shaking my head in despair, I reminded Izuru what else she had to live for. "Think of your children. They're far more precious to you than I am. You went through absolute hell on Grendel to get them back."

"They are precious to me." Izuru's brow furrowed in emotion. "As are you, James. But you must promise me that you will refrain from any further foolishness as willingly handing yourself over to the enemy for the Cadians; men, who, in the past, threatened, stole from, and shot at you. You owe them _nothing_."

"I… I dunno why I did it. Stupid of me, I know that now."

"So promise me."

Meeting her intense stare, I said solemnly, "I promise, Izuru Numerial."

"I see nothing but honesty and sincerity within you." Blinking slowly, Izuru rested her hands on my shoulders. Travelling down my sleeves, her hands worked at the thin material, scrunching it up in places and pinching the skin between her thumb and forefinger. From thousands of feet above our heads, the unbroken drone of aircraft engines covered the skies in a blanket of steel and whistling explosives, though neither of us wanted to move from our secluded spot despite the danger. Taking my hand now, Izuru worked her fingers through mine, gently twisting and pinching the skin between my fingers, letting me caress her dirty cheek. The lightest touch on her ear brought on a sharp intake of breath, breaking the moment of intimacy between us. Startled when Izuru left the seat, I made to follow, an apology on the tip of my tongue.

"No." Almost coldly, Izuru pushed me back down, setting a firm hand upon my shoulder. I was meant to stay there. Looking on in confusion, I remained where I was when Izuru left. _Does she want to be alone after all?_ I wondered, not a little guilty at my intrusion. Really though, I was guiltier of wanting to explore new places, places we had not been to in our previous encounter. Worried she had sensed the desire in me, I let my shoulders slump despondently, feeling like a naughty juvenile.

Soft footfalls announced Izuru's return. She carried both her Volg, my Gerax, and the rest of her equipment, dumping them at the foot of the semi-circular seat; resolute that I would be going nowhere else that night. About to come out with a question, I was shushed by Izuru when she sat down next to me, laying her hand on the breast of my body armour, giving me an affectionate smile that banished all the worry from my heart and the questions from my head. "I hate formality, Captain," I said.

"I am no captain." Looking down, Izuru began undoing the buttons on her jacket. "And you…" she paused, getting two fingers underneath the leather sweatband of my beret and hooking it off. "…are no sergeant."

With my cover thrown on the floor, I smiled, overcome with shyness, enough that Izuru began working at the clasps of my flak vest before I stepped in and undid them myself, taking charge as she stripped off her jacket. Wrinkling my nose at the unwashed smell my skin gave off, I winced sheepishly. _Throne, I must smell terrible to her. Like an animal,_ I thought, peeling off my own jacket and dropping it at my feet. Watching one another in the darkness, I felt like saying something affectionate, wanting her to know how much she meant to me now, but could not find the words. Izuru, also holding her silence, leant forwards and laid a hand on my own, pressing it down upon on the thin mat that covered the seat. Her eyes glowed faintly, in the same manner as they had during my nightmares but only this time they gave off unveiled warmth.

 _Wait_. I broke our shared gaze and delved down into my respirator sack, rootling around in there for the box of matches the compo unit had contained. I had noticed some candles set in tiny recesses in the wall, deciding I wanted them burning brightly, providing us with some light to see one another; more than we had before with the single torch beam. Awaiting me, her hands crossed in her lap, Izuru looked on as, first I lit one candle then passed the tiny flame over another two. Three was enough.

Waving the match head, I blew on it and dropped it on the stone, careful to keep it away from our equipment. Warm light from the flickering candles now cast itself upon us. Breathing slowly and deeply, Izuru's shoulders rose and fell. Many more scars were visible on the side of her face, some recent, others long faded. So many stories behind them, stories I would never know. I felt a deep respect and admiration for the warrior woman, the being whom I had once decried as a monster. By every right, she was above me. Far eclipsing my combat prowess and intellect; superior in every way. But then, as she sat a few feet away, I could not have felt like more of an equal to her. And I could not explain why.

Restraining herself no longer, Izuru gathered me in her embrace, murmuring in my ear. Burying my face in her shoulder, I felt her hands move down to my shoulder blades, and the swell of her breasts pressing into my chest. Kissing her ear, I stiffened when her nails dug into the folds of my t-shirt.

" _Iam ashafar ual,"_ Izuru whispered. " _Iam yass siolka. Iam yass shelwe."_

"I can't…" I said sadly. "I can't understand you."

"Let this be my words." Relaxing her hold on me, Izuru drew back, laid both hands on my cheeks and kissed me, her tongue delving deeply into my mouth, working over and around mine.

Seizing the back of her head, I gripped her bun, fingers working fiercely to loosen it, muttering, "tell me."

Stubbornly, Izuru kept silent, lost in the thrill of intimate contact with another. Retreating after our lungs clamoured for oxygen, Izuru, many thin strands of hair blowing out behind her, swallowed a lungful of air and pulled her t-shirt over her head. At the sight of her breasts catching the light, I stared, transfixed, until Izuru tucked a hand underneath my chin and tilted my head up, once again waiting on me to disrobe.

"Tell me," I probed gently when the centre of our bodies pressed together, receiving nothing but kisses and soft murmurs from Izuru. "Please."

"Sshh." Bending down over me, Izuru drew me into her bosom, kissing my forehead and stroking my hair. "Take off your boots for me."

Fixing myself with untying my laces, I started uncomfortably when Izuru slipped a hand down my back, wriggling away from the cold touch. Catching sight of her removing her own boots and trousers, I received a firm palm to the face, pushing it away. Again, I was not to look at her. Snorting in quiet amusement, I pulled my sore feet out of the smelling interiors, losing my OG socks too, for good measure. _Am I allowed to look now?_

My answer came when Izuru, wearing not a single item of clothing, manoeuvred me down on my back and worked at my trouser belt, of the same mind I had been. Trying to lift my head up, I rested my chin on my breast when Izuru straddled me. Revealed in the light was the widespread bruising and scarring covering her finely-toned body. Astonished at the mess of purple and yellow marks, I balked momentarily, the desire for intercourse dwindling after seeing the amount of hurt she had sustained.

"This is all there is," Izuru smiled, her eyes shining. "Warts and all."

There were no lies from then on. We exchanged nothing but the truth, spoken not with words but through the conquest of each other's being. The strain of the physical love, alien to me when it breached new boundaries, was less of a chore and more of a journey conducted by our intertwined bodies. Never disconnecting, we, one being, eventually flowed together like water until I could not tell her from me. We drank one another, feeding off each other upon arrival, and slow, gasping climax.

The candle wicks had burned low when I finally asked the question I had been wanting to ask for a while. Lying with one leg thrown over me, her long hair wild, Izuru slept, or pretended to sleep perhaps to stave off any awkwardness she might have felt over what we had shared. Squeezing Izuru's shoulder, I whispered softly in her ear, "sorry if I embarrassed you. I was just going by what you were doing. Thought it was the right thing."

"No. No. Speak not of it." Izuru nuzzled my cheek, warming it with her breath. "Is lovemaking so alien that you believe yourself incapable of understanding its nature?"

"Hmm, no."

Izuru turned my head and began planting short kisses on my lips. "You are no longer _ishniva_ – weak. You are _avten_ – an adult."

"Izuru, I want to ask you something," I said quickly, before she could drop off. "It's not about what you said."

"Pray ask, and I shall answer you, James."

Weighing up the ways of wording the question, I caressed the arm Izuru had draped across my chest, stroking the hairless skin. When nothing came to mind, I asked her in as blunt a manner as possible, forgoing any intricate wording. "Izuru, are you immortal?"

My nervousness at offering such a deeply personal question to her in the aftermath of our lovemaking brought a slight flush to my cheeks. It was shocking to hear Izuru stumble over her words when she came forth with a reply after a short silence. But even more shocking when she admitted it. "…James, I am sorry but I cannot answer that question. I do not know the answer for it has confounded even the brightest minds of our race for eons. My mentor, Eldrad Ulthran – over ten-thousand human years old – is one of the oldest living beings of our race. Not even he knows for certain. And he is dying. I can say only that we are long-lived but can die as easily as any other being can to bullets and shrapnel."

Lifting up her head, Izuru kissed my eye, her mouth travelling around my nose and up to my forehead. "Let body, mind, and heart be at rest."

"Yeah, we've got ground to cover tomorrow." Playfully, I repulsed her advances, tickling her breasts in retaliation.

"Much, I agree." Izuru's lip curled in pleasure at the patterns my fingertips were tracing. "Quite fascinated with them, are you?"

"Nothing out the ordinary." Laughing, I removed my hand and slid a finger along the curve of her nose. "Now that. That there's a real head-turner. I'll say that's the prettiest nose I've ever seen. You must've had a tonne of admirers for that."

"Oh, there was little interest in physical properties where I came from. It was more intellectual quality that we sought." Grinning, Izuru added flirtatiously, "how low I have stooped for you."

"You better off or worse for it?"

"Hmm, the former. Just look at how I used to be. Hideously arrogant and indifferent to the sufferings of others."

"Well, no change there then."

"Bastard." Showing her teeth, Izuru jabbed a finger into my belly. "May ten-thousand insects find residence within your undergarments, James Larn."

"And yours."

Snorting at the crude humour, Izuru rested her head against mine sleepily. "Hush now. Let slumber offer us her embrace. Leave your self-consciousness behind and awaken with me, replenished."

Tomorrow would see us into the lair of the Inquisitor, where one way or the other, it would be either him or us getting what they desired. My prayer to the Emperor, a heretic's plea, begged for us all to make it through alive. But somehow, I knew it would not turn out that way.


	41. Chapter 40

**Solarus District, 02:09**

Proceeding at the slowest crawl, the five Hennus lorries and ambulances, bearing the seventy walking wounded that had been 'found' amongst the cases at the CCS, inched south. With their progress hampered by darkness, the fouling of the roads, and the intense heat given off by fires, the procession made little headway. In the first hour alone, they had not even made half a kilometre down the road.

 _We'll be here all night at this rate_ , Ral Bleak thought gloomily. Squeezed in-between Aimo and another walking wounded, Ral was jostled by their shoulders constantly. Every little hump and pothole the Hennus negotiated translated itself to murdering any comfort the passengers had, further producing groans of pain from some of the wounded; their bandaged arms, torsos, shoulders, and heads, unable to find any respite from the merciless ride.

"Aah, son of a—" Aimo gritted his teeth, his head swivelling despite his blindness.

"S'alright, mate. You're okay." Ral patted Aimo's knee. "We're alright."

"Yeah, I know that, Ral. Don't be treating me like a fucking child here, mate. I'll kick your flaming arse," Aimo said heartily.

 _Done nothing to hamper his spirits then_ , Ral remarked, pleased that Aimo had not sunk into a depression. Aimo alone was keeping a chipper air about him, refusing to let his wounds drag him down. It was more than could be said for the other men in the back of the Hennus; most of whom still had their eyesight, yet complained about their own inflictions.

 _Why, James?_ Ral tutted to himself. Nursing a black mood, right up until he had been occupied with helping the wounded fill the lorries, Ral felt betrayed by Larn's desertion. That damned stickie and her manipulations had caused a split down the centre of the remainder of the company and had now hauled James and Cyrano away on an errand for her when, by rights, they should have been with Ral and Aimo. Not to mention the previous trouble she had caused. Some business with the Siphani officer where, allegedly, James had shot her during a stand-off. Upon hearing the story, Ral had shaken his head in disbelief, swallowing not a single aspect of such a tall tale, until Aimo had confirmed his fears in private, staggering Ral.

 _Either way, we're better off without the stickie,_ Ral thought, rubbing his dry thumb across his fingertips. Was it that James was besotted with the stickie, Izuru? Possessing far from unattractive features, Ral could understand how she had persuaded him to leave with her, acknowledging the ease of it, with him so young and easily swayed by looks. _I thought you would have more common sense, James_. _You won't get a happy ending. Such glowing outcomes do not exist._ _Nemtess surely taught you that._

A deep rumble from the west made Aimo start uneasily, prompting Ral to put a hand of comfort upon his friend's shoulder and mutter reassurances. Across them, Joe Herle leant over and patted Aimo's knee. "We're all here, Aimo. Don't you worry now."

"Mmm, not all of us," Aimo said in a slightly wistful tone.

"I know. The others will be alright, Aimo. They're tough lads."

A collective squeak of worn vehicle brakes preceded a halt, whereupon a loud voice carried itself down the halted line of lorries and ambulances. "Any able-bodied men?"

"Shit, Ral." Aimo dug his fingers into Ral's arm. "Don't let 'em take you away."

"It's alright, mate. I'll be fine." Ral felt his pulse quicken as light from torch-beams shone through cracks in the lorry's canvas roof. "Joe. You're gonna be alright. You're not a combatant. They won't take you."

"Walking wounded proceed on foot from here. Able-bodied, report to the bastion without delay." The authoritative voice shouted.

"On foot?" Aimo quailed as the idling engines began to cut out, one by one, leaving the column in comparative silence. Only the confused chatter and grumbling of the wounded could be heard.

A torch-beam was promptly shone into the back of the Hennus. "Any able-bodied among you?" A commissar called out. "Dismount and line up at the roadside. Quickly now."

"Hold on, Aimo. We'll have you down." Keeping Aimo in place, Ral reached around him to unlock the tailgate, lowering it along with another able-bodied grunt.

"Look lively!" the commissar barked, glaring at the men as they de-bused.

"Aw, takes me back, that does," Aimo said as Ral caught him underneath his armpits and set him on the ground.

"What's that, Guardsman?" The commissar, hearing, turned and shoved a finger at Aimo.

"Sorry, mate, I can't see here." Aimo pointed at his bandages. "Lost me sight."

 _Only a blind man could use that excuse_ , Ral smiled to himself. _Anything to piss of a commissar is okay in my book._

Staring at Aimo for a second, realising he could do nothing to discipline the casual insubordination, the commissar snapped his fingers at Ral. "You, Guardsman, help this man."

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Ral murmured, when the commissar strode away to heckle the occupants of the lorries behind. "Bloody commissars."

"Careful now." Herle, helping Carillo down from the lorry, grinned. "Got eyes in the back of their heads, they have."

"A commissar, was it?" Aimo chortled. "Glad James ain't here. He'd be quite upset."

Tugging Aimo's arm over his shoulder, Ral guided him over to a single file of grunts that were standing, waiting to be let through a tall sandbag barricade down the street. "Yeah, mate. James."

"Hey. He didn't mean nothing by it. Y'know, him and Izuru—"

"I don't want to hear about him and Izuru, Aimo," Ral snapped. "We're better leaving it alone now."

Herle prodded Ral in the arm. "Hey, come on, Ral. Larn's a tough little bugger. He'll pull through."

"Yeah, I don't need you to tell me that, Scribe. I was on Nemtess. I know. Aimo knows too. So, shut it."

Falling in with the ragged file of walking wounded and medical personnel, Ral, Aimo, Herle, and Carillo waited for the others to debus and join them. Over the crackle of flames, consuming nearby buildings, and the far-off rumble of artillery, Ral felt a strange thudding that made sharp stabs at his heart. The peculiar reports, inaudible, were making the wounded jittery. _Bombs perhaps?_

"Come on. What's the waiting for?" A grunt asked, throwing nervous glances around when distinct pops of rifle-fire sounded from further north, in the district they had not long ago departed. What set Ral's teeth on edge, was that nobody really knew where Zeke was, only that he existed, in their collective consciousness, as an unseen – for the moment – all-powerful force that could not be stopped; only fled from.

"Hey, look over there." Herle pointed at the lead Hennus. Two figures were conversing, one leaning out of the cab to address the other. "If my eyes don't deceive me…"

"That's the colonel," Ral said, disinterested. The colonel had not paid any attention to him or Carillo ever since they had made it to the casualty station and had apparently forgotten about their ordeal, not that Ral was looking for attention or anything. Officers could keep themselves to themselves as far as he was concerned. They were their own class.

"No, the other fella. He looks like…"

The scribe had a point. Against all probability, the officer the colonel was chatting with looked like none other than Simon Corta.

"You're right…" Grinning in relief, Ral stepped out of the file, cupped his hands over his mouth, and called over. "Mister Corta, sir!"

Indeed it was Simon Corta, the man himself cutting short his chat with the colonel when he heard Ral's hail. Excusing himself from the colonel's company, Corta came over, nodding pleasantly at Ral. "Hullo, Ral, I thought you were in Jark. What happened?"

Ral explained in brief of his and Carillo's ordeal with the colonel, right up to the departure from the CCS.

"I see. Hullo, Carillo, Herle, Aimo." Corta planted a hand on Aimo's shoulder and clasped his hand. "Good to see you all."

"Everything okay here, sir?" Aimo asked. "The lads all in one piece?"

"We've had a quiet time since the bastion. General Creed's been gathering all the able-bodied blokes. Odds and sods like us at Bastion One. We're just waiting for orders to move."

"You're gonna get off Cadia with us though, aren't you?" Ral said, worried that Corta and the other Cannon grunts would not be allowed off-world with him and the wounded.

"I'm sorry, Ral. It looks like we're gonna be covering you lot instead."

The loud commissar announced himself once again, cutting across Corta, arrogantly. "Away with you, Lieutenant. Concern yourself not with these men."

"Commissar, do not interrupt me when I am convening with my company."

"All able-bodied are to report to Bastion One at once, _Lieutenant_."

"Yes, Commissar. Only I see no able-bodied men here."

The commissar pointed an accusatory finger at Ral. "Him."

"Private Ral Bleak is Cannon Company's only medic. He is currently assisting Acting-Sergeant Aimo Garst."

Wrinkling his crooked nose, the commissar turned on Herle. "You. Step forward, Guardsman."

"Josef Herle is with the Cadian Enquirer, Commissar. He is not a guardsman. He has been covering Cannon Company throughout our tour on Cadia."

The commissar ignored Corta. "You write for the newspaper, citizen?"

"I write what I see." Herle gave the commissar an easy smile. The friendly gesture was not returned.

"See that you do it with proper enthusiasm." Glaring, the commissar made off in the direction of the barricade, signalling the Cadians manning it to begin sorting the incoming wounded from able-bodied.

Stepping in close to Ral, wary of eavesdroppers, Corta said, "Larn and Cyrano, where are they?"

Sighing, Ral nudged Aimo. "Larn, Cyrano, the Highlanders, and the cooks have gone, haven't they?"

"Yeah, 'fraid so."

"Bothersome," Corta tutted. "I can't overlook this, lads. They'll need to be written off as desertion cases. I'm sorry, but Larn should not have bought that stickie into the company. He has tied my hands in a damnably tight knot. You know our policy regarding xenos."

"Please, sir. Larn's a good person…" Despairing, Aimo fumbled for Corta's arm. "Don't do it."

"I do not doubt that, Aimo. But I cannot let the crime of consorting with xenos slide."

"Here we go." Carillo tugged at Herle to get him to move along, when the line began shuffling forwards.

"Believe me, I harbour no personal desire to see the young man written up on charges. But, Aimo, he shot an officer. Witnesses were present. Failure to observe the necessary proceedings will result in a breakdown in discipline. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, sir." Crestfallen, Aimo slouched, having to be dragged along by Ral. "It's not right."

"It's the Imperial Guard, Aimo."

Drawing near to the barricade, Ral offered a suggestion to Corta that he had been brewing over for a time. "Sir, I'd like to re-join the company."

"Negative. Zero-zero. Number ten to that, Ral. I'm ordering you to get Aimo, Herle, and Carillo off safely. Don't worry about us."

"But, I want to be there if something happens, sir. I can't leave you all on the ground with Zeke."

"I'm sorry, Ral. I'm ordering you to leave while you still can."

"Think I might have to disobey that one, sir."

"You've been around Larn too much. He attracts trouble like a magnet. Honestly, I'm glad he isn't here. He was nothing but trouble for this company."

Aimo held his tongue to that.

Ral suspected an embittered reply, cursing all officers was about to surface, prompting him to give Aimo a warning elbow in his side to keep quiet. "Yes, sir. Understood."

Corta stood to one side, allowing Herle to help Carillo through the narrow gap in the sandbag wall. "Alright, off you go, you two. Ral, Aimo, you next."

"Good luck to you, sir. Give our regards to old C Company," Ral said, once they had cleared the barricade.

"Good luck to you too. All of you." Smiling, Corta shook both Aimo and Ral's hand. "I wish you the very best for the future. Off you go now."

His farewell given, Corta turned on his heel and made his way back to the fortified stronghold that was Bastion 1. Aimo and Ral, meanwhile, stuck to the same southerly heading, keeping pace with the other walking wounded that were bound for the airbase.

"Didn't like what Corta said there, Ral. Sounded like he weren't gonna see us again," Aimo said glumly.

"Nah, he will. He will, Aimo. Just you wait." Ral felt his nonchalant tone threatening to crack. He wondered if it truly was goodbye for them. "Haven't got to worry about them now. Let's just worry about ourselves, okay?"

"Okay."

Everywhere Ral looked, the closer he and Aimo got to the airbase, there was utter devastation. Disabled guns of all calibres sat everywhere, as well as countless vehicles, either driven off the road or simply left where they were. Corpses were scattered around, filling up bomb craters, hanging out of windows. Many in one piece, many with lost limbs, stiff and dry from decomposition. The heat from the fires, left completely untended, made the district stink. Flames in the distance had turned the black horizon, orange.

* * *

 **Valkyrie 229, Callsign 'Crow 5-7', 04:39**

Thirty-nine kilometres to the west of Kasr Kraf, across the expanse of the Elysion Fields, Kasr Stark's macro batteries ceased their bellowing. Hugh Waldo thought nothing of it, until a bright, white flash on the western horizon, to his eleven o' clock, ripped his attention away from his fire-control radar.

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing, Crow Leader?" Waldo said to Karl Imress.

His flight commander responded with an unnatural measure of concern in his voice. "Yeah, I see it, Five-Seven. I'll get on to Brighteye."

Kasr Stark's abrupt cessation of existence was not the first remarkable occurrence that morning. The addition of passengers, along with the full loads of ammunition each slick carried, had surprised the crews when the two men, one officer and one warrant officer, turned out to be none other than the lord castellan of Cadia and his sergeant major.

"That's the bloody general," Arun Ovile had whispered to Waldo when he had spied the general and the sergeant major speaking to Captain Imress on the tarmac before take-off. "What's he doing here alone?"

"Beats me, pal." Waldo shrugged. "C'mon, let's get this bird in the air."

Not one to question the events happening around him – he only followed them – Waldo had lifted off from the tiny LZ established just south of Bastion 1, with Imress's slick and WO Andrew Seroy's slick, and taken up a V formation for the outbound flight. That was eight minutes ago. Kasr Stark had gone up on the ninth.

"Yeah. Yeah, Five-Seven, that was Kasr Stark. Brighteye's lost contact with the air liaison there. Nobody's really sure what happened," Imress replied. "Ignore it, Crow Flight. Maintain current height, angels two, speed, 400 KPH, vector, two-eight-five. Copy?"

Waldo and Seroy responded with two clicks on their comms; received and understood.

Vector 285, roughly north-east from Kasr Kraf, put the lift on a heading that would see them flying over the Korg mountain range, and the great reservoir held within one of the valleys. _What's up there that is so important that Creed would choose to fly there, incognito?_ Waldo wondered, curious at the absent retinue that should have been accompanying the lord castellan. Did Creed have some master plan up his sleeve, kept hidden from all, until the eleventh hour when, in a master stroke, he would reveal it and turn the tide of battle in his favour? Nursing that optimist's thought, Waldo then brushed it aside, choosing, realistically, to focus on his own task, over contemplating future possibilities of grand strategy. Who was he to ponder such things? He was a transport pilot, not even a proper officer. Let the generals and brigadiers bicker over the big picture. _No need for me to agonise over the general's decisions. Let him take the weight of Cadia. I'll just do my job in the meantime._

Cadia, for Waldo, was Valkyrie 229, and its population, him, Arun Ovile, Russ Reath, Ori Hensen, and the, now declared fit for duty, Irv Sice. With the return of the door-gunner, the five men could become a family again, and bicker, quarrel, joke and jibe, as much as they pleased. And Waldo loved them for that.

The Korg Dam, a grey, 500-foot high construct of impermeable ugliness, held back the inland sea from rushing down onto the Elysion Fields, drowning them in 2000 square kilometres of water. Its ugliness was matched only by its majesty, thought Waldo as the lift passed over the double-carriageway that stretched the gently-curving three-kilometre length of the dam. _Such a raw, natural force, bricked up like that, would have no trouble washing the filth of Zeke away. Come to think of it, it'll probably wash us all away. Nature doesn't discriminate._

"Odd." Arun remarked, when Waldo began to kill his speed for the approach to the remote listening post's LZ, perched in the shadow of a mountain peak at the far end of the reservoir.

"Alright, why's it odd, Arun?" Waldo said, an eye on Imress's wingtip, to his immediate port.

"Not marked on the map."

"Check your cartograph again. You're in error."

"Hmm, can't be."

"What version are you running? You didn't forget to ask the techie to update, did you?"

"Nah, this is definitely the most recent one the AdMech rolled out. I'm dead certain."

"Okay, so this LP isn't showing on the map. Any further remarks?"

"No, no. Just thought I'd notify you. We are apparently landing on the mountainside. Is She complaining yet?"

Arun was talking about the ship's onboard machine spirit, affectionately referred to as 'She'. Like any real woman, she had good days and bad days, requiring a good deal of maintenance by the squadron's dedicated tech-priests. On that particular morning however, She was silent.

"Not a peep," Waldo replied. "Techies must have been getting intimate with her last night."

Bringing his slick down gently upon the hexagonal landing pad, jutting forth from a cavernous hangar buried within the mountain, Waldo switched off. Creed and his sergeant major had not even waited for the rear ramp of Imress's slick to lower, rather both had hopped out of the starboard door and run, hunched over, to a small welcoming committee. Shaking hands with a Cadian colonel, Creed had fallen in with the O-group and disappeared down a corridor leading out of the pitch-dark hangar.

 _Just what is Creed up to?_ Waldo pondered, settling in to wait.

* * *

 **Karkuss District, 05:06**

The match scratched noisily across the striking surface on the side of the box, the oxidising agent in the head bursting into bright flame. Holding the match lightly in my thumb and forefinger, I passed it close to my face, feeling the fleeting heat. It withered in comparison with the warmth Izuru and I shared. With her head close to my own, I could see her eyes were closed, and her face was peaceful. No need to wake her yet. My own body clock had roused me somewhere within the hour before dawn. Time enough to get ready and gather the others for a briefing.

Working my way free of Izuru's embrace, I sat up straight and laid both feet upon the cold, stone floor. Rubbing both shoulders, I searched around for my t-shirt, finding it lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. _Disgusting_ , I thought as I sniffed the creased cotton, letting it fall from my fingers. Having given no thought to the letters of consolation I had taken upon myself to write since the hab dorm, I recalled the other men's families that I had promised to notify; not just Martti's. Now was as good a time as any to write those letters. Fishing through my gear, I plucked the spare pieces of paper from the breast pocket of my jacket and, by the light of a fresh candle, I began to write. Finding it near-impossible to deliver a coherent sentence before with Martti's letter, I was now blessed with a strange understanding and confidence. I knew exactly what to write now. I might have said my words came from the heart but that would make me a liar.

 _Should have done this ages ago, lads_. I smiled, thinking of the faces of my old fireteam. They were a good bunch. Too good to have been claimed by Nemtess, as so many others were. It would put their families' hearts at ease, knowing that a good friend of their sons was personally writing to them, rather than the cold, callous hand of the Imperial Guard, delivering the death notice without apology or sentiment. Half-way along the last line of the letter to Antti and Erkki's family, I felt a pair of hands snake around my waist, and a nose pressing against the back of my neck.

"Time to rise?" Izuru whispered.

"Mm-hm," I grunted, marking the letter with my full name, glancing at the naked flame when it flickered. "There. All done now."

Nuzzling my shoulder, Izuru rested her chin on it. Folding the letters into one, I tucked them away inside my breast pocket, taking out a packet of cigarettes. Poised, with a match ready to strike, I felt Izuru's arms tightening around my chest, willing me to give up. Finding resisting her hopeless, I tossed the packet away, a tad reluctantly. "Alright, I quit. You've got me."

"I am proud of you, James. Their families shall know peace because of you. It is more than I can say for my lost command. So many Rangers, Fire Dragons, and Dark Reapers. Their spirits lost to Her. And all of it for nothing," she said, an undercut of bitterness in her tone.

"You're getting back at Zeke though, aren't you? Every Zeke wasted is one Eldar avenged, right?"

"Vengeance to you is not the same as vengeance is to I, James."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

Taking my shoulder, Izuru eased me over backwards. I trusted her enough to refrain from intervening, letting her set me down on my back and lie on top of me, manoeuvring her hips provocatively, as if yearning to experience the intimacy of the night again. Damn me forever for saying it, but she really was beautiful. The bigoted views I was brought up with could not have spurred me to deny the simple, plain fact of Izuru's loveliness. Within those eyes dwelt an unquenchable fire, a thirst for battle, and a heartfelt devotion that had sprouted from our past enmity. Her bed hair tickling my face, Izuru traced a line down my lips with her finger, caressing the underside of my unshaven chin with her thumb, a look of sincere affection in her eyes.

 _She needs me. I can tell_.

"Get dressed. We're out of here before dawn." Closing my eyes, I patiently returned her kiss. "Please, Izuru."

Parting, the final clinging moment of intimacy over, Izuru saw to her gear, dressing and checking her Volg and Moses in the brisk, cool manner of a veteran. Fingers clumsy, I made a hash of tying my boots, having to rework the laces several times, so much that Izuru was waiting on me when I straightened up and hurriedly donned my jacket and gear.

"Not playing anymore, Izuru," I said when I noticed the knife in Izuru's hand.

"I do not jest." Approaching me, Izuru opened the palm of her left hand and ran her blade through it, as I looked on in confusion. "Give me your hand."

Hesitating, I gave Izuru my left hand, wincing when the razor-sharp blade split the skin on my palm, and when the pressure from Izuru's own hand, squeezing mine, mounted. Izuru then took a strip of cloth from her vest and wrapped it around our linked hands.

 _What's she doing?_ Bemused, I stared at the peculiar bond, losing interest when Izuru bent her head down. Rather than deliver a kiss, she laid her forehead against mine, in the gentlest of headbutts, gaining my eyes and holding them in hers.

"And now, the blood of Alaitoc join-ed with the blood of the human. Together, our races shall stand in the face of the great enemy, proud and resolute."

"You really want our people to join forces?"

"It is my farseer's wish. As the former ambassador to the human race, I was tasked with extending the hand of truce to you and all humans. Ulthwé would have come to your aid had it not been for the usurper, Macha. Now, I stand not as the ambassador for the Ynnari, I admit. But I will honour my farseer's request, and officially grant you my hand, as partner and ally."

Humbled, I blinked away the wetness clouding my vision, unsure of how I was supposed to reply to something as absolute as that. "I… um. I'm honoured, Izuru. But I don't think anyone here would accept. What I mean is, nobody wants these Ynnari – whoever they are – to help. This is a human war. Eldar shouldn't have got involved. I'm sorry, but your mentor's wrong to want a truce. The Imperium's too prejudiced to accept your assistance."

Stepping away, Izuru unwound the cloth strip connecting our hands, using it to tie up the cut on my palm.

"No-no. Your own hand." Feebly, I protested Izuru seeing to my hand instead of her own. "Look, this don't change anything between us. I'm, I'm here for you. You know I am. Look, let's just concentrate on bagging the Inquisitor then getting off this shit-hole planet. I dunno about you, but I've got no plans afterwards. All I know is, I'm throwing the towel in. I'm gonna throw the towel in, pack up my kit and go home."

Producing the Zeke officer's map from an inside pocket, I spread it upon the warm seat. "Okay, we're here." I pointed at the cross-shape that was the cathedral. "Izuru?"

Perching opposite me, Izuru's expression became attentive. "Should we not convene with the others first?"

"Yeah, I…" Rubbing the back of my neck, I said awkwardly, "I wanted to run this by you first, because… you're career."

"Career?" Perplexed, Izuru frowned.

"Look, what I'm trying to say is, you're the professional soldier. This is your life. I'm not gonna be making the Guard my career. I don't want to be in boots forever. I never wanted this. I'm not a warrior at heart, like you."

"Well, I am afraid I must correct you. I was not a warrior at heart either, until Alaitoc took my bondmate and exiled me and my children to the stars. I was studying architecture. I had no desire to become a Ranger, to follow in my father's footsteps, rather to find out who my mother was. That was all I cared about, for a time at least. Then the business with the Corsairs, Saarania, Platis, Grendel, and you. Circumstances merely forced me to take up blade and rifle. I have and shall continue to do so until those I care about are no longer directly threatened by my enemies."

"I only meant to ask you because you've got more experience than me. Than all of us," I said quietly. "You're a hell of a fighter. I know I needn't tell you that. But that's the way it is."

Neither confirming nor denying my claim, Izuru turned her eyes to the map of the Karkuss district.

"We're about five kilometres west of the river and two north of the rail bridge," I said, showing her where. "What do you think of using the rail bridge to cross, instead of the road bridge?"

"The road bridge is here?" Izuru moved a finger, from the double lines of the railway tracks, roughly seven-hundred yards north to where the road bridge was marked. "I agree. There will be fewer eyes on the rail crossing but it will still fall under surveillance."

"What about the river itself?" I was worried that both spans may have been destroyed by the nightly bombing raids, leaving us, possibly, with no way to make the east bank. "Doesn't say how deep it is."

"It is deep enough to make crossing with equipment a death sentence."

"You know that for certain?"

"I swam it the previous morning. I would advise against it. And I carried nothing on my being."

"Okay, no swim then. Thought your hair smelt of sewage," I added with a hint of slyness.

"Salt, not sewage. You forget, I tasted saltwater once."

"Where was that then?"

"An estuary. Though I cannot claim to know how I got there. Mind remains blank on that period."

Conscious we were straying off-topic, I tapped the broad circles of the citadel's defensive rings. "What can you tell me about this?"

"Nothing. I know naught of the enemy's disposition."

"Nothing remarkable at all? No landmarks, possible breach points?"

"A landing pad in the western sector. The Inquisitor's quarters overlook it."

"Any ships there?"

"Groundlocked, most definitely."

"Possible means of egress? If you can fly us out, that'd be great."

"Far too many ifs, James. Let us concentrate upon our present situation."

"Mm-hm, okay. Rules of engagement: we're not engaging Zeke unless he engages us first. If we do get contact then mine and the Highlander's stubbers will lay down a base of fire, so you and the others can disengage safely. We'll consolidate on your position after that."

"Leave another to deliver the fire."

"Izuru, I've got to do this. You know an NCO or an officer is supposed to put their lives before others. And if I don't stay behind and give you time to disengage, then what sort of noncom am I?"

"But you are not a noncom."

"No, but I'm sure as bloody well gonna act like one, or we're all down the drain."

"Well, if you wish to stay then I shall remain with you. Keep ever alert for treachery. Keladi's murderer is still unaccounted for. It will be my hand that he dies by, no-one else's."

"Number ten. It's my job to get you to the citadel in one piece. Don't get bogged down with us in a streetfight. You've gotta keep moving. It won't matter how many Zekes we waste. There'll still be the Inquisitor, waiting for you, up in his high tower. And I want us to face him together."

"Know you of streetfighting tactics?" Izuru raised her eyebrows expectedly. "Professionally tutored, are you?"

Sighing, I said, "no, you know I just make stuff up as I go along. I've been improvising since Bastille, so I have. Seems to work. Mostly."

"But have you learnt from the errors you made? Only through mistakes can you learn lessons."

"I'm a slow learner, Izuru. You've taught me more things than one, though. Lessons in combat and in other places." A slow grin stretched across my face.

"A mentorship I intend to follow through with." Izuru, refraining from cracking a smile, replied coolly. "I will respect your wishes." Reaching across the map and took my hand. "Your rifle and mine. Together."

"Together. Let's do this."

* * *

After scarfing down some tinned grox-meat, Izuru and I made the descent to the nave, quickly gathering Cyrano, the cooks, and the Highlanders together. As a tin of black camouflage cream was passed around, I briefed the grunts on the day's operation. Hanging back, Izuru looked on as I provided the rest with details she and I had previously agreed on.

"Alright, we're gonna egress via the east-facing door. That's directly behind you guys." I pointed at down the length of the nave, where the great double-door sat, barred. "Any questions?"

"So, we're just going on our own then. No-one else?" Azar, unconvinced at the plan, said.

"Just us, yeah. We don't wanna aggro Zeke today. Our objective is to get across the river and inside the citadel; all of us."

"Uh-huh. Even you, Azar." Gale smiled.

"Movin' in two minutes, lads. Get wired."

"Here, James." Cyrano offered me the tin of face cream. "Ah, hold on. I'll do it."

"Cheers for that, Cyrano." Waiting for the bigger man to daub my face, I said, "how you getting on?"

"Mm-hm. My thoughts are with our friends. No doubt they will be flying off-world today." Grinning, his eyes crinkling, Cyrano added, "I envy them."

"Yeah. We'll be out of 'ere today as well. I guarantee that."

"Oh yeah?"

"Izuru spotted a landing pad when she escaped the citadel. She saw ships there. Maybe, just maybe, I was thinking that she can fly us out."

"Optimistic."

"Yeah. Just don't tell the others. I don't want to get their hopes up."

"Understood. Did you sleep alright last night?"

"Um, yeah, yeah. No nightmares." I glanced over Cyrano's shoulder at Izuru. "Cyrano, I want to talk to you sometime, about…"

"Of course. Let's focus on the task at hand first."

"Thanks. Can you…" I nodded at the tin of face cream Cyrano was holding. "Do her? Make sure the others see it."

It would be better if the others saw Cyrano applying the camouflage cream to Izuru, instead of I. That Cyrano was on good terms with her, not just I, might cool their resentment.

"Right, this is it, lads," I said, once everything was sorted. Magazines and charge packs were loaded. Pouches closed and fastened. Covers seated firmly upon heads. "Get moving then."

Catching sight of Izuru wearing a soft, peaked cap with goggles and earflaps in lieu of her ceramite, I tapped a balled fist against my own cover. "Captain."

A blank stare brought me over to her, irritated at her stubborn refusal. "The hell's the matter with you? Put your ceramite on," I hissed.

"It interferes with my hearing, Sergeant," Izuru shot back. "I shall not journey forth into battle with such a handicap."

"On your 'ead be it then." Snorting, I left Izuru standing there and made off after the others. The perpetual arrogance of stickies struck a sour note with me. Already, the memory of our closeness and innocence of our mutual feelings was dwindling. We were soldiers once more. Personal concerns about the other's safety were set aside.

Outside, the pre-dawn artillery announced itself with its customary moan. Having acquired an ear for telling if it was incoming or outgoing, I immediately recognised the higher pitch of the incoming round that built steadily, making the usual sound of a large freight train rocketing through the air.

"Zeke's early today," Cyrano muttered to me.

"He hates timetables, that's what."

"Have you done something to your hand?"

"It's nothing. Private stuff, mate."

Beyond the walls of the cathedral, the dead ground, interlaced by trenches, began receiving compliments from the Zeke gunners. Little by little, the barrage began walking closer to the cathedral, saturating the area to the north, west, east, and south, gouging fresh holes in the wrecked streets, and tearing up hab foundations.

"Come on, what're our long-range snipers doing?" Azar, alone among our group, fidgeted like a wetnose would when no one answered his question. The seven of us were arranged around a sizeable hole blown in the eastern end of the cathedral. The doors themselves had been barricaded by benches, sandbags, chairs; anything to shore it up. A Cadian fireteam, with a single 25-mm bolter, alongside hand weapons, was guarding the breach.

"Omnissiah preserve us," a guardsman murmured, making the sign of the Aquila over his breast.

 _Not sure the Machine God will help us with this one_. I thought, shifting the heavy bandolier holding my spare Gerax magazines around to a more comfortable position. _Think we might have left it a little too late to leave, here._

Zeke, with cover from his artillery, offered us a greeting, delivering a handful of searching shots in the direction of the breach. The loud _ping_ of ricochets, bouncing around above our heads, made us huddle closer together, heads worming their way deeper inside flak vests, hands fastening chinstraps. A hand I felt pressing upon my shoulder, Izuru's, I brushed off, annoyed at her overt concern for my welfare.

"That's rounds incoming!" Lorne, the closest to the opening, declared. At that, the Cadian bolter team began pumping out shells. Pressing my fingers in my protesting ears, I waited for the Cadian to relent before slapping the assistant gunner on the shoulder. "Oi! Have you got contact? Wha' you firing at?"

"Can't see any targets, Sarn't," Lorne shouted.

"Oi, cease fire."

"I do not take orders from you, soldier," snarled the gunner. "Be away with you."

"Shit." Lorne jerked back from the breach when more rounds snapped by. "Nah, I reckon—"

His words were drowned out by the bolter team returning fire upon Zeke.

 _Get back from there_ , I gestured. Borens hauled Lorne away, far enough for us to convene without being deafened by the heart-stopping _bang_ of the bolter.

"I reckon we're not gonna get out that way, Sarn't." Lorne told me. "If Zeke's got that area covered, then we're not gonna get the lads out safely."

"Any other way outside?" I threw the question at any member of the Cadian fireteam, to which I received no response. "Right, get back from the breach. Consolidate on me."

"On the sarn't, now!" Cyrano's much louder voice paid dividends then, as on the gallery above the nave, other weapons teams had opened fire, filling the vast hall with noise. A prickle of fear played along the nape of my neck, hearing the lasguns and bolters, even all the way down at the far end of the gallery, above the western doorway, letting fly upon the unseen enemy. And there we were, gathered in our little island of solitude, in the middle of everything. Surrounded by noise, I faltered, my decision-making stalled.

"Them tunnels down below…" Lorne began.

 _Bugger it_ , I thought. _Lorne should be in command, not me_. I wasn't sure how that would have flown with Izuru, Cyrano, or the cooks though, letting Lorne take over. After all, he was not Imperial Guard.

Seizing the initiative before Lorne could, I signalled the others to spread out and locate the stairway leading down into the cellars. "Find us a door leading down, lads. We're going down."

"Tunnels?" Izuru rounded on me as the grunts dispersed. Cyrano hung back too, until I waved him away impatiently.

"I don't reckon we're gonna egress at ground level safely. The warrant officer said there were tunnels underneath the cathedral. It's a long shot. But we're clutching at straws right now. And I don't want to get us pinned down in 'ere when Zeke assaults."

"Very well. I go."

"You wear that Crap Cap if you want, Izuru." Tapping a knuckle against my temple, I added, "just watch your head there."

Winking, I clicked my tongue, at which she smiled, inclining her head respectfully and backing away.

It did not take long for the doorway leading downstairs to be found. It was Lorne who found it and came rushing over to me, eagerly. "Got it, Sarn't."

Whistling, I summoned the others back to the nave, and together we trailed after Lorne. The guardsmen weren't half making a racket now, running through their charge packs and belts like water. Normally I would have ordered the grunts to assist in the defence, adding our lasguns and automatics to the firing line, though I – rather callously – admitted that this was not our fight, and joining it would see us rooted in place, and throttled for time; time which I knew was steadily running out for us. The longer we tarried on Cadia, the greater the likelihood of us all taking on a prime slice of Cadian real estate.

"Stinks down here," Borens said, wiping his hand across a damp patch of brickwork.

"Leaving your scent behind you, Highlander?" Azar, directly behind Borens, grunted.

"Play nice, you two," Gale warned.

"All friends here, lads. Leave the nasty stuff for Zeke." Cyrano flung a dirty look at Azar.

Staying silent, I followed Lorne along the narrow tunnel, in the direction of the clacking of picks. The architecture underneath the cathedral floor had evidently endured years of neglect. Moss was growing out of the gaps between the red bricks. In many places the walls bulged outwards, forming chokepoints that dragged at our bulging ammunition pouches, body armour, and slung weapons. Further adding to the tight confines was the ceiling that fell uncomfortably low, forcing the taller members of the group – Izuru and Cyrano – to stoop awkwardly.

"Hoi, Cadians!" Lorne called. "Sing out, why dontcha?"

The sounds of the picks, and their subsequent echo, stopped.

"In the name of the Emperor, come forward and be recognised," a cold voice replied, from along the passage.

"Why do they sound so pompous?" Borens tittered.

"Dunno, mate. Ne'er understood why," Lorne said.

Following on behind Lorne, I stepped out into a small gallery, blinking in the eerie green glow given off by chemlights that were scattered across the damp floor and shoved into crannies in the walls. The source of the noise had come from a team of half a dozen Cadians who, stripped down to shirtsleeves, were pummelling away at the bricks on the opposite wall with pickaxes and chisels. At the interruption, tools were set aside and M-36s picked up.

"Who commands this rabble? Advance and be recognised." A female guardsman, shaven-headed, and a little older than the other Cadians, brought her Kantrael to the fire-ready position.

Stepping around Lorne, I spread my hands wide. My Gerax remained slung on my shoulder. "I do," I said, keeping an open face. With only the Cadian's age an indicator, I hazarded a guess that she was at least corporal, possibly even sergeant. "Corporal."

Sneering contemptibly, the 'corporal' picked up a neatly-folded khaki jacket and, pausing for dramatic effect, unfolded it and beat the thin layer of dust off the left sleeve, revealing three white stripes. "You were saying, soldier?"

Undeterred by the uptight Cadian noncom, I said, "I'm Sarn't Larn, these are my people. We're here to help."

The Cadians exchanged bemused glances, slowly lowering their lasguns, leaving the sergeant, alone, on the defensive.

"Can you hear that?" I pointed a finger upwards, taking a step towards the bald sergeant. "Can you? That's Zeke in contact with your pals." As the words left my mouth, a rumble above our heads shook a fine dirt mist free from the ceiling. "We're surrounded good and proper. This tunnel's the only way out of here. We'd like to help you dig."

Follow-up tremors served to unnerve the Cadians sufficiently that they resumed their dig, hacking at the old bricks with renewed vigour. Holding Lorne and Borens back, I ordered them back up the tunnel to guard the entrance. "Set up your firing position up top. Don't let Zeke get too close. If he does, and you're in danger of being overrun, fall back down here."

"Will you have this tunnel open in time?" Lorne, dubious, looked at the narrow hole the Cadians had made.

"Yeah, we'll have our exit made. Give Zeke a good showing from us, Highlanders."

"Roger." Turning tail, Lorne and Borens disappeared up the passage.

Bearing the brunt of the Cadian sergeant's baleful stare, I set my rifle, body armour, helmet, and belt kit aside, rolling up my sleeves in preparation for mucking in with the Cadians. Following my example, Cyrano, Azar, and Gale dumped their own gear and took a handful of discarded tools lying nearby.

"That's the spirit, lads." I grinned encouragingly. "Mind your fingers and toes now."

Appropriating a chisel and a lit chemlight, I noticed Izuru had sat herself beside the mouth of the passage and was immobile.

"Wassup with you?" I asked, kneeling beside her. Impotency had Izuru in its grasp. I had noticed a similar episode occur the previous day during the close shave with the Zeke flamethrower. That she had become little more than deadweight unsettled me. This was no way for an Eldar Ranger to act, fear or not.

"The walls press in on me," Izuru breathed. "Floor and ceiling choke me. I can feel the flames creeping down the tunnel, throttling me of air."

"Hey." Lowering my voice to a gentle whisper, I pulled off a glove and took one of her cold hands in mine. "Ilic and Korsarro are waiting for you. They miss their mother so much."

"I miss them so." Izuru's eyes darted around nervously. "Accompany me. The children would love to see you again."

"Yeah. I will. I will." It was pure fancy. But I needed Izuru focused. And right then it was all I could do to humour her, to get her to pull herself together and shunt the fear aside. "You were wonderful last night. I never felt anything like that before." That, I added with sincerity, for it truly was a wonderful, albeit confusing experience.

Smiling weakly, Izuru looked up at me from underneath the wonky brim of her cap, her fingers finding the chisel I held in my hand and taking it into her own.

"Yeah?" Winking, I gripped Izuru's forearm and helped her to her feet. Our little moment ended spectacularly when a terrific rumble shook the ceiling directly above our heads, filling the chamber with more clouds of dirt. I heard, from very far away, the dulled stutter of the Highlander's stubber, and hoped it was chewing up Zeke.

"You speak in whispers, Sergeant," the Cadian NCO shot at me when I went and stood by her shoulder, hacking at the cement with a pick head. "It makes me nervous."

"You're worrying about the wrong thing 'ere, Sarn't." I snorted. "You Cadians. Too frightened about internal security. If you got your act together sooner, we wouldn't be hiding inside cellars, hacking away at walls. We'd be bloody assaulting Zeke, so we would. Actually fighting back instead of running away."

The noncom's reaction was exactly what I had anticipated. Digging her chisel into the deepening wounds in the wall, she clenched the wooden handle tightly; so tight her knuckles were white. "Withdraw that accusation, Sergeant."

"Or what?" I sneered. This was exactly what I had wanted from her and the other Cadians. So occupied with me, they were paying no attention to the growing ruckus above ground, or Izuru.

"We're through! I've got an open space on the other side!" Gale crowed, his arm buried in a hole, all the way up to his shoulder. "Aw, bloody good, that. I can feel fresh air."

With the realisation that we were quite close to having a means of egress, the Cadians, including the simmering sergeant, redoubled their efforts, bashing away at the old cement holding the bricks in place, their conflict with me forgotten; for now, at least.

"Hurry!" Levering odd bricks out from where they had sat around the hole Gale had made, Cyrano began kicking at the crumbling wall, alternating between striking it with his pickaxe.

"C'mon, smash it," I cried, as a shudder tipped more dust onto us. The constant gunfire coming from the cathedral spoke of an intense brass-exchange occurring between Zeke and the Cadians. There was no end to the snaps and sputters of small-arms now, it was constant.

"Hope the Highlanders are laying it on Zeke," Gale said cheerily.

 _Pretty cold-blooded for a cook_ , I thought, shaking my aching wrist.

Of an altogether different nature, Azar, at Gale's shoulder, was shifty-eyed and sweating. "Ahh, this dust." Leaning backwards, Azar covered his nose and sneezed loudly. "Giving me a reaction, it is."

"A reaction to hard labour, is it?" Gale laughed. "Could never get him to do anything by himself."

"Yeah, that's right, Sarn't. I screw everything up. That's my job."

A scuttle of boots down the passage, and the Gellens broke out into the chamber.

"What's going on up there?" I asked, dragging the pair into a corner, away from the Cadians. "Where's your gun?"

Lorne, bereft of his stubber, replied, "we got contact with Zeke. He's pouring in the eastern door. Drove a track through it, opened it up wide for 'em."

"Aw, you'd better have us a way outta here, or we're shagged." Borens shone a chemlight across the opening, his dirty face lighting up. "Looks like we're in business, boys."

"Stubber, got off a good couple o' bursts," Lorne continued, as Borens mucked in with the others. "Then – bang – bloody thing locked up tight. Cartridge jammed inside the barrel, I reckon. It's the shit ammo Zeke uses. You had trouble with a Zeke rifle before, didn't ya?"

"Yeah, fine. What about Zeke?"

"Lotta smoke and dust in the nave. Couldn't see a bloody thing. Didn't want to engage with hand weapons in case we wasted Cadians by accident."

"Okay. How long you reckon we've got?"

Wiping his grimy face down, Lorne said, "Zeke's gonna sweep the ground floor first. That'll take long enough. I dunno, depends how thick he is on the ground. Could be two minutes. Could be ten."

"Alright, Lorne, you take the Scoba. Cover our arse."

"Oi, hang on." Lorne lowered his voice. "I saw fire right before we came back down here. I'll warrant that Zeke flamethrower's gonna be poking his nozzle down here, sharpish."

"Okay, keep that quiet, like." No sense in triggering Izuru's fear, or anyone else's for that matter. The threat of being burned alive in a very small place sounded very unappealing. "Iggery."

In no time at all, a hole wide enough for an average-sized man to fit through was formed. Cyrano volunteered to wriggle through and see what was on the other side.

"Careful, mate." I accepted Cyrano's cavalry cover and offered him a chemlight in return.

Our hearts sunk when a loud splash came from the other side. A harsh oath, spat out in a foreign tongue, was given by Cyrano. "Up to my shoulders here," he exclaimed.

"What is it, sewage?" I called.

"Drainage. Still smells though."

"Illumination coming in," I said, Borens and I tossing lit chemlights through the hole. "You see anything?"

"An iron grate to my left. The tunnel extends away to my right then makes a left turn. I can see a ledge but its further down."

"Aw, whack-ho. Captain's coming along next. Make some room down there."

Beckoning to Izuru, I stepped back, allowing her to scramble through the opening and drop down into the water below.

"Captain?" Bemused, the Cadian sergeant frowned at me. "Who are you?"

"Bunch o' odds and sods, Sarn't. Now, if you want to come with us, you're welcome. If not, the tunnel's right there."

"Pass us our gear down." Cyrano whispered urgently.

"How deep is it?" Azar asked, unclipping his belt kit and slinging it over his shoulder.

"However deep it is, I'm not carrying you on my shoulders, Azar." Gale, glowering, handed his heavy ammunition belt to Cyrano.

"Shit, they're up to their armpits down there," Azar groaned as he followed Gale down into the water. "Aahhh, that's cold."

Wafting a hand in front of my face and trying not to sneeze in the dirty mist, I pushed Borens over to the hole. "Borens, go."

"Lorne, get your arse over here." Climbing down, boots first, Borens called to his friend. "Don't be too long!"

"Aye." Lorne, steadfastly holding his position at the tunnel mouth, gave a thumbs up to Borens.

"You staying or going?" I asked the frozen Cadians. "My lance got eyes on a Zeke flamer. You stay here, you're all buying it."

The sergeant, now in khakis and flak armour, had her mind made up. "Guardsmen, follow the irregulars. Quick as you can."

With the Cadians dropping through the hole, I slipped over to Lorne. "Hear anything?"

"Ssh." Closing his eyes, Lorne's brow furrowed as he strained to hear the impatient beat of hobnails upon stone. Resting his Scoba upon his knee, the Gellen ground his teeth in anticipation.

"Wait." I raised my hand, grasping Lorne's sleeve when I heard the coming of Zeke down the passage. "Can't you hear it?"

"Uh?" Lorne dug a finger into his ear and wiggled it around.

 _Deafened from firing his stubber inside._ Quickly realising Lorne's hearing was severely diminished, I shook him roughly. "Get outta here, Lorne. Go on, bugger off."

Dumbly obeying my command, Lorne fled.

" _Come on_ …" I whispered, hearing the splashes my comrades were making, fading away. Assuming Lorne's position, I aimed my Gerax up the passage, kicking dirt over a nearby chemlight to reduce the glow it gave off. Sweat began building up inside my gloves. The webbing underneath my flak vest cut red lines into my shoulders. My damp jacket clung to my back. My smell alone would give me away.

All thoughts of the stall-and-delay action were beaten aside when an orange glow appeared up the tunnel, accompanied by a throaty roar. Black smoke curled from crevices, warm fingers tickling my cheeks. " _Shit_."

The terror of facing a flamer hit me then. In a brief bout of madness, I turned and bolted for the hole, flinging myself through, not giving a damn how deep the water was. As it turned out, my height was what saved me. Surging into the chamber, a burning cloud of promethium filled the room entirely, bursting across the water's surface above my head, coating it in the gelled liquid. Panicking, I slipped my Gerax's sling off my shoulder, letting the heavy rifle drop. A moan of desperation, muffled by the water, escaped my lips. The entire surface was now slick with burning fuel, trapping me underwater. My belt kit, boots, and armour – lead weights – were iron shackles, keeping me in place. Feeling my lungs start to burn, I cried out for Izuru, hands dragging at the water, searching feebly for purchase.

A woman's face scythed through the green murk. Thinking it Izuru, I reached out for her, only realising it was somebody different entirely when her hands touched the sides of my face, and her mouth pressed against mine. Blowing oxygen into my lungs, the woman gathered me in her arms in a display of magnificent strength and carried me away from the fire.

* * *

 **Valkyrie 229, 06:59**

The Cateran pilots were a little too relaxed, now that the most dangerous part of their mission was behind them. Coming down from their combat-high, such was the thrill of the dawn raid upon the Imperials, the two low-level raiders sped away from their targets, too intent on scanning for fast-moving interceptors roving the skies above them, rather than the comparatively slow Valkyries, that stuck to a lower altitude.

Hugh Waldo had noticed the pair of raiders a full ten minutes before, when they showed up on his radar. further adding to his concern was that the enemy aircraft would be crossing their path, at less than a mile distant, easily enough for the two sides to get a visual on one another; uncommon in aerial combat which took place beyond visual range in most, if not all cases. The change in heading Waldo expected Captain Imress to declare never came, instead all three slicks continued on their present vector, 133 degrees. Roughly south-east, on a vector that would bring them back to Kasr Kraf.

 _Has he seen them?_ Waldo wondered. The blips were showing up bright on his radar and should be on Imress and Seroy's too. "Crow Leader, this is Crow Five-Seven—"

"Five-Seven, received and understood," Impress replied coolly. "Maintain present speed and heading."

 _What's he doing?_ Waldo looked at Seroy's slick, in the portside position of their vic. Had Seroy cottoned on to what Imress was doing, leading them so close to the flightpath of a bomber formation.

"Five-Three, this is Five-Seven," Waldo began, only for Imress to cut him off.

"Crow Flight. Safeties off. Two bandits at our two o'clock. Follow my lead. Over."

 _Does he think we're interceptors?_ Waldo swallowed nervously when Imress's slick began banking to port. And the lord castellan was riding as a passenger too. _Is he trying to impress him? Throne of Terra, he isn't risking our lives for the sake of getting a promotion, is he?_

The gamble of risking three full crews, for the sake of shooting down two bombers that were on their return trip no less, spurred Waldo to voice an objection. But he wanted Seroy on his side too. If the other warrant officer was against the cavalier action then Imress might reconsider. Would he though? Was General Creed aware of what was about to happen? Surely the lord castellan would be firmly in objection to the three lightly-armed transports trying to take on two bombers; escort or not.

 _Come on, Seroy. Say something,_ Waldo fumed. Andrew Seroy remained silent, apparently compliant with Imress's order.

"What's the captain up to? Is he really expecting us to go head-to-head with the Caterans?" Arun Ovile said. "Is this because the bleeding general's riding with him?"

"Don't know, Arun," Waldo said, keeping an eye on Imress's slick in his peripheral vision. The wide bank to port was then superseded by a tight starboard turn that put the lift on a parallel heading to the Caterans. Clouds prevented any visual sighting, until, breaking free them, Waldo spied the raiders cruising north-east, and less than a mile distant. _They must have seen us by now_. _Well, if we're in it then we're in it all the way,_ thought Waldo, removing the safety on the slick's main battery, a Scara BL multilaser, and lining up behind Imress. Seroy took up position at Waldo's rear. All three slicks increasing dispersion with one another.

Switching to crew comms, Waldo said, "we're engaging two Caterans, boys. Hang on now. Expect to take some lasfire. Are you all wearing your flak vests and covers?"

"Yeah, Hugh," Russ Reath replied. "Hensen and Sice are standing by on the door guns."

"Right, I want you to retract the door guns and close the doors. Get yourself strapped in."

The two gunners and crew chief would be little more than passengers during the sortie. There was no chance their 25-millimetre bolters would be able to get a good angle upon the bombers unless Waldo got to spitting distance with them. Which, for that matter, he already was by being able to spot them with the old Mk. 1 eyeball. _Throne, this is stupid_.

"Five-Three, stick on to my tail. I'm going for the starboard-side target. Five-Seven, take the port."

Giving two clicks over comms, Waldo eased his heads-up gunsight upwards, drawing the glowing reticule gently across the twin boomed tail of the portside Cateran. At seven-hundred yards, no issue at all for the Scara, he opened fire. The sound-dampened crackle of the weapon, operating at a cyclic rate of 1000 shots per minute, blasted over his helmet's speakers. Immediately, as if countering Waldo's barrage, the Zeke tail gunner fired back. Expecting to hear the Cateran's twin-linked multilasers, Waldo jumped in his seat when a slow-firing, and thunderous, autocannon responded, with the _bang-bang-bang_ only a 20-millimetre could make. His aim unsettled by the fat slugs cutting through the air around him, Waldo fired again, missing unexpectedly. Cursing under his breath, Waldo banked to starboard as the Cateran rolled to port. "Crow Flight, be aware, Zeke's packing a heavy automatic weapon in his drawers. I just took fire from it."

Heart pounding at the old-fashioned dogfight he found himself in, Waldo twisted his neck, searching for the other bomber, and the slicks pursuing it. "Crow Flight, come in please."

It was Andrew Seroy, who, previously silent, had come up on the other Cateran's port quarter, after the dead-eyed tail-gunner had driven Imress away as the other had done with Waldo. Rolling his ship sharply to port, ignoring the thin trails of propellant from the 20-millimetre cannon shells that were pumping through the air, Seroy lined up his sights upon the Cateran's starboard engine, and let fly, pouring particle beam after particle beam into the circular bulge in the armour plate. Hearing a scream as the ravaged engine increased in pitch, Seroy banked away, his ship buffeted as the tail-gunner paid a parting compliment of cannon-fire.

"Crow Five-Three, this is Five-Seven, do you read, over?"

"Rog, Five-Seven," Seroy replied excitedly. "Crow Leader, this is Five-Three. One Cateran down. I say again, one Cateran down for the count."

Imress, having hung around watching after his aborted attack run, said, "yeah, I see it. Good job, Five-Three. Better luck next time, Five-Seven. Form up on me, Crow Flight. Let's go home."

 _What will the lord castellan think of that?_ _Throne of Terra!_ Even without an escort, Caterans were nasty. And they paled in comparison with their larger cousins, Marauders, and the even-larger Marauder Destroyers. _Never again. Never again_. Waldo thought. He was wringing wet with perspiration. A peculiar exhilaration had accompanied the bladder-loosening fear that had encased Waldo in its clutches throughout the twenty-second engagement. For all the danger involved with air-to-air combat, there was a certain attraction to it that had drawn Waldo in. More of an addiction, like with junkies getting frequent hits on narcotics. If that was true then Waldo had only tasted the very corner and found himself wanting more.

* * *

 **Kasr Kraf Airbase, Solarus District, 07:03**

A brick had been put through the screen of glass sometime during the night. Whoever was on the other side had fled, leaving a thin trail of blood that had long since dried out. After that, the orderly queue had disintegrated as men and women pushed through the airbase's west entrance in mobs, swarming up the steps, only to find other, even larger crowds occupying the base.

It was sunrise on the 34th day of the invasion. The last ships had left the airbase an hour before, leaving hundreds of thousands of military personnel and civilians stranded. Daylight bombardment had temporarily put an end to the evacuation, forcing those not on the frontlines to wait for nightfall and the return of the ships. Among them were Ral Bleak, Aimo Garst, Tom Carillo, and Joe Herle. Having wandered through the gutted, smoke-filled streets for most of the night, the foursome found the western entrance to the airbase choking with guardsmen and grunts. To the north, the west, and the south, gunfire could be heard. The Cadian rearguard, engaged in a desperate battle to hold the ever-shrinking perimeter, was falling back, further and further into Kraf.

So demoralised by the hopelessness of the situation, Ral collapsed to his knees in the middle of the street and looked up at the lightening pink sky with despair in his eyes.

"Come on, Ral," Herle said. He was now supporting both Tom and Aimo. "Ral, I need a hand here. I can't carry Tom and Aimo on my own."

"Tell me what you see, Ral." Aimo put his hands on Ral's shoulders and squeezed them. "I can walk, I just can't see. I need you to be my eyes from 'ere on."

"Nothing to see," Ral whispered, his sooty, greasy hair blowing in the wind.

"Well, that don't matter, does it? We keep moving, mate." Digging his hands underneath Ral's armpits, Aimo hauled him up. "Guide me, Ral. You still there, Joe? Tom?"

"Yeah, we're here, Aimo," Tom, paled-faced, replied. Like everyone else, he was exhausted after the difficult trek through the devastated streets. So many craters, potholes, fires, and wreckages had slowed the party's pace. But now, with the airbase's entrance in sight, it looked like their chances might improve.

"I bet there'll be plenty of space for everyone up there," Joe said optimistically. "Yeah, Tom? Peter and Woulter got off yesterday. Maybe we'll do the same today. I dunno about you, but I've had enough of Cadia."

Joining the queue of Cadians and men from foreign regiments, the foursome gripped one another's hands to prevent separation. Such was the eagerness of some to get inside the protection the twenty-foot walls offered, there was, on occasion, some shoving, and corresponding retaliation by men who had had their nerves stretched to breaking point by the stress of combat.

 _Come on, keep it moving_. Ral adjusted his grip on Aimo, flinching when, further back down the line, artillery began to explode, launching towers of dirt into the sky. A few panicked souls dived out of the line and took cover where they could, only realising they had lost their place in the queue when the short barrage ended. _More where that came from_ , Ral thought, as he helped Aimo up the stairs. _It never stops_.

There was one word that Ral had never expected to use adjectivally again. He spoke it aloud when, at long last, he, Aimo, Tom, and Joe got to the top of the stairs and made it out into the open air.

"Nemtess," Ral said, bowled over at the harrowing sight before his eyes.

"Nah, can't be." Aimo's jaw quivered. "No. I'm not going back there. W-where's James?"

"All over again."

It was as if an entire army had encamped itself inside the airbase's walls. The distant hangars, now little more than skeletons, were packed with soldiers and refugees, some even having climbed the curving supports, just so they could be above the horrid stink that blanketed the base. There they sat, their legs dangling, with not a care in the world. Nearer the west entrance, motor transport, every single piece rendered unserviceable, was crawling with people, some lying in the backs of trucks, others underneath the chassis. Whoops came from childish Whiteshields as they caroused, having discovered the only easily-drinkable substance was alcohol. So much of it that the stuff flowed freely from stores, staining the once-clean ground a sickly brown. Pockmarked with craters enough that it was useless for non-VTOL ships to use, the runways, nearly 2000 metres long each, were now home to hundreds of tents and crude hovels built out of scrap taken from the bombed-out facilities. Cars were tipped up on their sides so their engine blocks provided somewhat bullet-resistant cover. Hennus lorries, their tanks drained and tyres shot out, were parked in a great line, presenting a makeshift dock for the ships that had no landing gear to set down upon. A few fallen scout walkers, immobile like every other vehicle, were sat on by dejected mobs of exhausted men. Downed ships, bulges silhouetted against the horizon, were also occupied by those seeking to hide from the ever-present threat that lurked somewhere in the skies above.

"God-Emperor." Joe shook his head sadly.

Ral said nothing but felt his heart sink to its lowest ebb. Another humiliating withdrawal. Another defeat. It was Nemtess all over again.

Ral and Joe were separated by a trail of medics guiding a line of shell-shocked guardsmen that were in such a poor state they had to be physically helped along. Following on behind them, Ral eyed a single ground-pattern Tranta stubber that pointed up into the sky, its ashen-faced gunner the only defence for the endless human carpet that sat around him. More Scoba 40-millimetre batteries in sandbagged emplacements were dotted around. But they were as sporadic as the single anti-aircraft stubber. Like insects, the masses covered every available space. Catching Ral's eye was a lone commissar who had apparently given up on his supposed duties. The hatless commissar, an oddity in itself, was sitting on empty water tank, taking no notice of the football game perpetuated by Cadian guardsmen and troopers clad in red tunics and black breeches below him. Egging the players on were other guardsmen and scarlet troopers who were routinely tossing wads of money around. The commissar simply stared off into space.

Rendered mute by the chaotic spectacle, Ral and Joe continued on. Their charges similarly quiet. Anarchy, drunkenness, and erratic behaviour reigned. A way away from the football game, Ral smelt burning and saw a gang of young soldiers tossing identity papers, pictures of wives and girlfriends, and copies of the Imperial Infantryman's Uplifting Primer into empty fuel drums, stoking the blaze with broom heads.

 _Hopeless_. Ral looked on as more and more pieces of men's personal lives were added to the fire. Perched on an ammunition crate, hugging his knees to his chin, was a boy paralysed with anguish. Frozen and trembling, he looked blankly at the dirt beneath him with glazed-over eyes.

Leaving Aimo in Joe's care for the moment, Ral hastened over to a line of portable latrines. Those that were not overflowing with human faeces were in use, prompting Ral to bitterly kick at a door, receiving a colourful string of expletives aimed towards him and his mother from the occupant. In the very last latrine Ral did a double take when he heard two voices, male and female, grunting loudly. So into it they were, the latrine was actually shaking.

 _Like it's their last day of existence._ Ral scowled, choosing to kick the dirt at his feet over banging on the door. _Maybe they know something I don't_. Mortified, Ral slapped his hands to his forehead and ran them through his hair. He imagined James and that stickie were doing similar. That thought instilled such a vehement hate within him, he had to sit down where he stood. _Why, James? Why did you let this happen? She's nothing to you. You betrayed us all._

"Hey, Ral." Joe was there. "Come on now. Aimo's waiting."

"It's all over," Ral croaked. "I can't go on, Joe."

"Oi, no need for that now." Smiling, Joe helped Ral up. "Chin up. Let's keep moving."

Letting Joe lead him back to where Aimo sat and Tom leant awkwardly against the flank of a Chimera, Ral fell down next to Aimo and laid a hand across his shoulders. "Alright, mate?"

"Where are the ships?"

"Coming tonight. They're coming tonight."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I don't want to stop here. Can we move on?"

"You sure? We're next to a track here. We've got good cover."

"Aimo." Joe leant across Tom and grasped Aimo's hand. "We're safe. We're all here. Let's stay here for now."

"I don't want to move either," Tom said.

With Aimo outvoted, Ral left the three and went on a wander. Encountering other bizarre sights, Ral ended up on field of down-trodden, muddy grass between runways, where a chaplain was leading a service. Joining the congregation, Ral knelt and bowed his head in prayer. No sooner had he done so, when the sigh of artillery breached the tentative peace that hung over the airbase. Putting his hands over his ears, Ral hunched over as rounds began stomping around, catapulting unfortunate souls into the air, and blasting new holes into the runway's surface. His own terror though hadn't infected the majority of the congregation. The chaplain in particular had continued reading, and his audience listening, for the most part staying still and upright, firm in their resolve that belief in the Emperor would protect them. Deciding to throw in his lot with them, Ral rose to his knees and prayed alongside them, for a miracle.

* * *

 **The Catacombs**

Breaking through the water's surface, I gasped down air, my arms flailing for the low ledge that stuck out from the wall. A rude jerk behind my belt, and someone heaved me out of the water. Coughing, I shielded my eyes when a bright green glow illuminated the tunnel. "Izuru?"

A figure, clad in bodyplate and a scaled cape rose gracefully from the water, her face catching the light.

"I haven't forgiven you," I said, rolling over and placing my back against the wall. "You're not getting in me good books again, if that's what you're looking for, Kora."

"I am Shesmet, young human," she said, spreading her glistening cape behind her. "And you are now in my debt. Forget not that I saved your life. And remember that I saved hers too, once."

"What, you mean Izuru? When?"

"Far to the north. Cadia Primus was when our paths first crossed. The remains of her unit were slaughtered in an ambush and she was the only survivor. Remember that she lived because I willed it. Not my master. Me, Shesmet."

"Come back strong, did you? Lemme guess. The Inquisitor got bored with you, uh? Threw you aside and cut all ties? Ah, that's what he's gotta worry about. Nothing more frightening than a woman scorned, am I right?"

"No good will come of your affair, boy." Shesmet gave a smug smile. "You do not know what sort of world you live in. What sort of powers are at work, shaping the galaxy, whilst you and every other human murder one another in petty conflict; all in the name of your silly gods."

"Aw, believe me, I've seen worse than petty conflict."

"And I have seen worse than the sight of two _enemies_ lying intimately with one another."

Fumbling for my Volg, I drew it and pointed the muzzle at Shesmet, livid that she had been spying on Izuru and I. Shesmet merely smiled and glided away across the water.

"I would advise against discharging a firearm in such close confines, young human. If you value your hearing, that is. Perhaps clearing the water might solve the problem, too?"

Grudgingly admitting to myself that she was right, I unloaded the chamber and magazine and blew down the bore to clear the water from it. I had lost my Gerax during my struggle underwater and had shaken off the heavy bandolier, carrying its corresponding ammunition, as well. Annoyed, I acknowledged that it was that, or drown.

"When you are ready," Shesmet called from where the tunnel forked.

Tutting, I asked myself why I had only encountered eccentric women on my tours. Didn't normal woman exist anywhere at all? Ones without pointed ears, hidden agendas, or grudges?

Keeping to the narrow ledge, I followed Shesmet's gliding form around the corner, cautious of sudden slippery patches, or even Zeke, though we had apparently left him far behind. _Good riddance_ , I thought. That flamer had given me the shits. That was the honest truth. I could only go so far in the face of such a fearsome tool of destruction. There was something primal about weaponised fire – or promethium as it really was. Just a hose projecting gelled fuel, lit off with a single spark from the torch. So easy to produce, yet so destructive, the way it enveloped everything.

Soaking wet, everything I wore, sodden, I followed Shesmet persistently. The constant dripping of water in my eyes, fuelling my irritation, compelled me to take off my cover and squeeze out my hair and wipe my, now-clean, face with my sleeve. It could have been worse. The water might have been sewage, then I would have really stunk.

"Where we going?" I asked, over the squelching of my boots.

"Where would you like to go?"

"Home," I said, somewhat wistfully, eyeing Shesmet's booted feet which formed ripples across the mirrorlike water. The glowing orb that accompanied her revealed that she was quite dry, with not a single mark upon her armour, or a hair out of place.

"Would you recognise home when you reached it?"

"Course I would."

"But would home recognise you? You may never return the same as you were before. Too much has happened. The xenos cannot return home as she was before, either."

"Don't talk about her like you know her. I know her better than you, Kora—Shesmet. And what's this Shesmet thing? Who gave you that name?"

"My mentor. His name cannot pass from my lips."

"He give you that armour too?"

"It is more than just a tool of war. It is a second skin of mine. It lives and breathes."

"What was that at the canal then? You making mischief with Zeke?"

"Zeke? Do you mean the Chaos enemy? If so, then yes. We gave you covert aid. Always from the shadows, though, we operated. And, remember, I went against my mentor's wishes when I had the xenos's life in my hands. I carried her. I sent her downriver to you."

 _Right into Woulter and Peter_. Remembering the two Tabors fondly, I hoped both had made it off-world and were settling in to their new surroundings. Shesmet was back on Izuru now, I noted with displeasure. Why the drive against her?

"You're really laying in to her, aren't you? Can't you stand her because she was born a stickie? S'not her fault. We don't choose it, you know. You didn't choose Shesmet, did you?"

"You chose the xenos. If I were you, I would place your weapon against your head and pull the trigger. Only that can solve your problems."

"Out of all my problems, she's not one. Right now, there's only you." I aimed a finger at Shesmet. "And him, up there in his tall tower."

"Do you really believe that you will be the one to kill him?"

"No, absolutely not. Number ten. I gave my word to Izuru that she would be the one to do it. She has to do it. The Inquisitor's men killed Keladi. This is proper personal, Shesmet. Don't get in her way. She'll destroy you."

Shesmet laughed softly. "Ah, yes. Their legendary arrogance."

"Oh, and don't get in my way either. She'll destroy you."

"So it seems. What a fondness for foreign fruits you have…"

Tiring of Shesmet's goading, I was fully prepared to let fly verbally, when she pointed away down the tunnel. "Look to your companions now, human. You will find them in an arcade at the water's edge."

"Where you going?"

"I have an appointment I must keep to. Now, go to them and await my return."

"But…"

"Go."

Extinguishing the light, leaving me in darkness, Shesmet swept away. Murmuring dark things about strange women in capes, I felt my way along the ledge, noticing the glow of chemlights which were laid across the floor, inside a chamber decorated with curving pillars.

" _Lads!_ " I whispered as loudly as I dared.

"Ssh. Who's that?" someone said.

"Oi, lads. It's me, Larn. Don't shoot, I'm coming in." Holstering my handgun, I waved my hands in front of me emphatically. "Larn's coming in. Hold your fire."

"Oi, guardsmen, hold your fire. It's the sarn't."

A chemlight was picked up and held at face-level. It was Cyrano. "Oh, thank the Emperor. Are you okay, James?"

"Yeah-yeah. I'm fine. Just been learning how to swim."

"Ah, we all have. Thought you'd come a cropper when that flamer started blowing its load down the tunnel."

"Just held me breath. That's all." Grasping Cyrano's arm, I clapped him on the shoulder. "Everyone else here okay? Highlanders? Cooks?"

"Yeah, Sarn't," Gale, as wet as I was, nodded. "Here, take a light."

"Guardsmen?" I passed the chemlight across the shining faces of the six Cadians. "You there, Sarn't?"

"We weren't expecting such a late-comer," the Cadian NCO said. "Just where do we go now then? Our warrant officer had the maps of the catacombs."

"Follow our noses. This water's gotta come out somewhere."

"Come on, James. Let get those things off you. Don't want to catch cold, now." Cyrano took my arm and guided me further away from the others. "Had me worried for a second there."

"Out of all the things that've happened to us and you tell me you were worried then?" Grinning, I sat against the pillar and tugged off my gloves with my teeth, setting to work with the clasps of my body armour.

"So what really happened then?" In the green light, Cyrano eyed me beadily. "I know you cannot swim."

Unclipping my belt kit and working the worn webbing straps off my shoulders, I said, "uhh, look, it's complicated. Long story, I mean."

I explained, in brief, about Shesmet, and why she was helping us. Cyrano, oddly understanding, nodded seriously. "Well, I will not pass judgement until I have seen her with my own eyes. But, do _not_ trust her. You do not know what really motivates her. It does not matter if she saved both yours and Izuru's lives. She would exploit that to her own gains. Though, it was completely unavoidable, I would advise against getting into someone's debt. Especially if you do not know them well."

"Well, it didn't turn out so bad for me and Izuru, did it?"

"And even I do not know the full story of that. Tell it to me someday."

"Yeah, alright. Let's sort this business out first then, once we're off Cadia, it'll be you, me, Aimo, and Ral going out for a drink; and I'll do my best to entertain you."

"He-he. That'll be a sight to behold." Cyrano laughed.

"Where is she then?"

"Gone off to scout the tunnels. She only left ten minutes ago. I wouldn't worry."

"Okay." With a moment's respite, I felt it suitable then to ask Cyrano something important. "I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Yes, you said earlier."

"It's about me and her—"

An abrupt shiver caught me mid-sentence.

"You and her?" Cyrano worked his hands up and down my arms vigorously to restore warmth.

"Cyrano, you're… you're married, aren't you?"

"Blessed in matrimony, yes. It happened so quickly. Ilona Savage, her name is. I only wish we had more time together. Ligurian, so she was. We were with one another two days. But that was enough. It will be on Liguria where I take my retirement, whenever it comes."

"Glad you're happy, pal. You've got something good to go back to."

"Well, surely you have as well?"

"Mmm. Not sure I'd recognise it. Home." A contraction in my throat briefly stifled me of air. "Jumael Four."

"You and her?"

"Uh, um… yeah, I wanted to ask you advice, that's all."

"Advice on what?"

"Last night, Izuru and I…"

"I know." Cyrano took my hands and rubbed them in his own. "I know."

"Cyrano, any sane person would shoot me in the head for that."

Cyrano shook his head. "Pfft. Show me a sane person, for I struggle to understand what sane being would still be here on Cadia."

"Cyrano, I'm asking you because I was worried I wasn't doing it right. I dunno what I'm doing, really."

"Well, first of all, what did you do?"

"Uh, lots of things." I blushed.

"What you need to remember is that it is for the enjoyment of both participants. Mutual pleasure, hmm? Were you facing her?"

"Yeah."

"Did you look her in the eye?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good. Now, the most important thing is; did you tell her what she wanted to hear?"

"What she wanted to hear?" I echoed, puzzled at that.

"Think hypothetically for a moment"

"Hyper-what?"

"What might one partner say to the other?"

"Cyrano, I don't think I'm ready for that."

"You should let her know before it is too late. Just, just gently, of course. Make sure you look her in the eyes as well."

"Okay. Thanks, Cyrano. That means a lot to me."

"Get yourself dried-up now. I'll be just around the corner."

In the glow of the chemlight, I sat, idly chewing on a fingernail, thinking about Izuru, Shesmet, the Inquisitor, and everything that could happen after Cadia. To hell with the Guard. It had done nothing but take from me. Pain and suffering were all I had experienced. The few friends I had left were mostly absent, looking for a way off Cadia.

At Izuru's return, I leapt to my feet, glancing over my shoulder to affirm we were alone, before tugging her by the arm. "Izuru, I…"

Manoeuvring her slung Volg around to her hip, Izuru slapped me across my cheek. "That is for breaking your promise."

Clutching my stinging cheek, I replied weakly, "don't reckon I deserved just the one there."

Izuru promptly hit me across my other cheek, adding, "and that is so you remember it."

"I'm sorry."

Saying nothing, Izuru pulled me into a fierce hug and pressed her mouth down upon mine with enough force that my head was tilted backwards, leaving me without pause for breath.

"You taste of another," Izuru spoke with a sudden harshness, unlocking me from her embrace.

"Izuru…"

Whirling, Izuru drew her Moses and aimed into the gloom behind her.

"Peace, daughter of Ulthwé. I bring words, not weapons," Shesmet said.

"Come forth, Thing. Speak not from the shadows, as a thief would."

"Izuru, this is Shesmet—"

"Shesmet? You called her Kora before!" Izuru rasped, thrusting me behind her, protectively.

"She was Kora before. I told you what happened. She saved me from the flamer back there. She wants to help us, Izuru." Reaching around her, I laid a hand on her wrist. "It's alright."

"Lay hands upon him again, and I will end you, _Saim_ ," Izuru spat. " _Ues, iam solerant mure uel_."

"Your pardon, _Aeldari_ ," Shesmet replied, with startling meekness. Further bowing her head, she said, "there is a colleague of mine, not far away. He would have words with you, _Aeldari_. But only you."

Izuru dug her heels in to that, flat-out refusing to accept Shesmet's offer. "The human party shall accompany me. We go together, or not at all."

"Okay. Let's put the gun down now, huh?" Keeping a hand on Izuru's shoulder, I laid the flat of my palm upon the Moses' cold body and pushed it down. "C'mon. Safety on."

Her eyes never leaving Shesmet, Izuru safetied her pistol and shoved it back into her chest holster. "Bring the others along."

"Okay, Izuru."

Opinions of our new guide ranged from dubious, to downright fearful. The Cadians in particular balked at the knowledge that a strange woman in a metallic bodysuit had shown up out of nowhere. But, of course, it wasn't like they had anywhere else to go. The chemlights, of which we had a limited supply of, only shone for thirty minutes before slowly dimming to nothing. So it was, by the glow of the orb, the thirteen of us trudged in Shesmet's wake. Through galleries and along narrow walkways we travelled. Surrounded by deep silence and the distant howl of wind, we went on and on for hours until our path was blocked by a huge blast door that took up the entire thirty-foot breadth of the corridor.

"I know that symbol," someone said.

A giant skull, one half human, the other a sporting mechanical augments, gazed at us. Surrounding it was a cogged wheel. _AdMech_. I recognised the blocky shaping. Questions I had ready to ask Shesmet were silenced by a wave of her hand. "Hold your tongues. I will speak for you. All I request is that you do not be alarmed by what you see. But be silent, I beg. He takes offence easily."

Izuru and I exchanged looks. " _Who?_ " I mouthed.

As in the dark as I was, Izuru responded with the slightest inclination of her head. _Let us see._

Stepping back in alarm as a torturous scrape of metal-on-metal assailed our ears, we watched as the two halves of the door split the skull down the centre and slowly parted ways.


	42. Chapter 41

**The Catacombs**

Blasted in the face, I covered my smarting eyes, stepping back from the rush of damp air, receiving a steadying hand from behind.

"This door hasn't been opened in a long time," Gale said. "All this bottled up air."

"Alright. Noise discipline now, lads," I whispered. "Don't know what's ahead."

Smiling to herself, Shesmet cast herself forwards, tossing her orb up into the darkness above, where it brightened, giving light to our path. The gate with the AdMech symbol upon it had opened upon a very tall and very wide square tunnel that looked almost white-washed. A mere pace ahead, the path narrowed into two concrete strips, both with nasty drops on either side, and a third gap in between them of about twelve inches.

"Shesmet!" I called, gaining her attention. "What's down there?"

Adjusting the light sphere, Shesmet directed it downwards, showing water reservoirs, black pools of incalculable depth on both sides of the path. A gentle inclination of her hand bid us follow.

"Single file. Watch your footing. If you fall, you're fucked," I said, not entirely truthfully. Shesmet would no doubt be able to retrieve anyone if they lost their footing. But I was not about to let that slip out. I figured if the grunts and guardsmen were scared then they would be much more focused and alert. Slipping into complacency now could lead to disastrous consequences later. A little bit of fear was good for keeping wired, ready for possible contact at a second's notice.

Placing Lorne and Borens with the Scoba at the tail-end, I organised Cyrano and the cooks around the half dozen Cadians, leaving Izuru and I on point. It was not a practical decision, but I preferred to be able to see where I was about to step, as opposed to staring at Izuru's back. The look she gave me spoke volumes on how she disagreed with the decision. Rangers always went first. _Well, not this time, Izuru_. _Hope you'll catch me if I fall_.

Under the green glow, I made the first step, putting the weight of my left foot on the narrow path, my arms spread outwards. With no heavy weight of a rifle putting me off-balance, I struck ahead, having to walk with my feet spread across the gap.

" _Slow. Slow_ ," Izuru whispered. " _Time lends us its sympathy_."

Slowly shaking my head, I replied, " _speed and caution_."

" _An unhealthy balance_."

" _Never done anything half-measure_ ," I returned, my eyes travelling up to Shesmet, who was watching us. Inside my head I counted off the minutes. Forty times I counted up to sixty. Still the path led on. Expecting to hear a loud splash of a body landing in the water at any moment, I winced when a scrape of cloth against the rough concrete grated in my ears, the harsh sound quickly followed by another, lighter splash.

"Everyone still up?" I said, hoping my trembling heart did not betray the anxiety in my voice.

"Yes, Sergeant," the Cadian noncom replied tersely.

"One of yours?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"He okay?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"What was that hitting the water?"

"Power pack."

"Oh, for fu—"

The curse I was about to deliver under my breath was cut short by Izuru's hand on my arm. "Let it go," she muttered.

Wanting to follow up with an angry reminder to keep pouches shut tight, I felt the comforting squeeze and the anger draining away like water down a sinkhole. I relented at the quiet voice of reason in my ear and led the party onwards.

"How much further?" I asked Shesmet.

"She does not know," Izuru said before the other woman could reply.

"How can she not know? She's leading us."

"This passageway has not been used for generations."

"I dunno about generations…"

"Such a closed question. How much further? Spoken as a child would."

"Watch it."

"Speak to me as an equal."

"Thought I was speaking her. What I want to know is, why these defensive measures? Why the AdMech hiding so far underground? What are they hiding?"

Snorting in approval, Izuru fell silent. I detected a smile riding her features. _I'm trying, Izuru. I'm really trying to not be the child any more. You want the child inside me to die, I know._

"Hey, you hear that?" Gale said suddenly.

"What?" Cyrano, behind Izuru, froze. The rest of the file followed suit.

"What is it, Sarn't?" Azar asked.

"Did you drop something, Azar?"

"No."

"…Watch the water," Gale said softly.

I heard a metallic click, too soft to be an actuator. A safety catch being set from 'safe' to 'fire', more likely.

"No shooting," I said clearly. "Cyrano, pass it back. No shooting. Nobody shoots." A burst of panic-fire would deafen all of us, leading to a loss in coordination and balance. Eyeing the two reservoirs nervously now, I wobbled on, unclasping the flap of my holster.

"Shesmet, what's down here?"

Still, Shesmet would not reply.

"Some bad shit's down here," Lorne said. "And it ain't Zeke."

"Shesmet?"

Retrieving her orb with a wave of her hand, Shesmet said, "await my return," and flew up into the darkness.

"Where's she going?" Cyrano shouted.

"Larn, where's she going?" Gale cried.

"Come back."

"Oi, don't leave us!"

"She's bloody running out on us!" Lorne snarled. "Let's give it to her."

"No-no. Don't. _Don't!_ " I snapped, when I heard the rounds inside the Scoba clinking together as Lorne shifted the stubber into his hip. "Bloody leave off."

A deep rumble interrupted the general discontent sowed by Shesmet's abandonment. Something much, much worse was coming. Cries of dismay came from the Cadians and the grunts when the water, as smooth as a mirror at first, began to rise.

"Move. Move!" I yelled, placing both boots on the leftmost ledge and haring forwards. Exhortations from Cyrano and Gale boomed off the walls. The slap of bootheels was lost over the roar of the rising water.

"Gimme a chemlight!" I screamed.

"Chemlight." Izuru wrenched a lit chemlight from Cyrano's grasp and passed it me. Tearing my eyes from the water, I pressed on. A cry from behind brought me round.

"Stay to the path. Do not deviate," Izuru barked from behind me.

"Pick him up. Get him out." Gale, to Azar's chagrin, stopped to help up one of the guardsmen who had fallen and was scrabbling for the ledges. "Get his arms."

The water had risen to the height of the ledge and was quickly lapping at my heels, soaking the worn leather and seeping in through the cotton, slowing my pace.

"Hurry!" A frightened voice bleated.

"Save your breath, damn you," Izuru shot, her fingers catching my arm as I misplaced my footing, nearly toppling into the water. "Press on."

Enraged at Shesmet running out on us, I shook free from Izuru's grasp and slogged through the ankle-deep water, waving the chemlight ahead of me like a torch. "Come on, lads."

Wading on, the water up to my thighs, I shook the chemlight, realising it was fading. "Light. I need light up here!"

"Here. Take it."

A fresh chemlight was tossed over heads. Missing the unlit stick, I searched desperately, scooping through handfuls of water, fruitlessly, before Izuru dug up the chemlight, lit it, and slapped it into my hand. Unable to see the path now and guided only by the weak light, I felt the verges of panic set in. Breathing through clenched teeth, I collided with a hard surface unexpectedly. Passing the light over the object, I slapped the hard stone wall in despair. "We're fucked."

"No, look up there." Cyrano grabbed my wrist and raised it, shining the light upon an opening set high in the wall. "There's our way out."

* * *

 **Bastion 1, Solarus District, 07:18**

 _One does not refuse the company of a light colonel_ _under any circumstances,_ Simon Corta thought, clasping and re-clasping his sweating hands behind his back. The effort of initiating painfully awkward small-talk with Lieutenant Colonel Lapraik, as the two had waited upon the bastion's tiny landing zone for the lord castellan's return, had brought Corta out into an uncomfortable sweat. Further disquieting him were the sounds of Cadian sniper teams, posted on top of the bastion's thick concrete walls. With the long-las' repeated barks, it was plain that the snipers were engaging Zeke at range and scoring an alarming number of tallies per minute. The noise, reverberating off the walls, was loud enough to drown out any verbal communication, short of talking in each other's ears.

"I never asked you about your captain, Lieutenant," Lapraik said.

 _Yes, you did._ Corta frowned. Deciding to play dumb, he cupped a hand behind his ear. "I'm sorry, ma-am?"

Lapraik placed a hand on Corta's shoulder and spoke in his ear. "Captain Meller. What befell him?"

Feeling a twitch of irritation at being made to recall a fellow officer's death, Corta replied, in blunt, "airstrike, ma-am."

"I see."

 _You know damn-well what happened. Why ask again?_ Corta wondered. Thinking of a means to be excused. "Good officer," he added, gritting his teeth when he heard the tremble in his voice.

"Certainly, you have had rather a ticklish time getting here from your firebase."

"No small feat, making it through Zeke's rear too. I have you to thank for bringing two of my men along with you."

"On the subject of your men. It would be best to forget certain incidents that occurred at Bastion One and the casualty station."

"Forget…?" This was to do with Larn and the stickie, Corta realised, his eyes darting about, confusedly. "Ma-am, failure to follow the correct disciplinary proceedings will result in a breakdown in discipline—"

"Why would the correct disciplinary proceedings need to be followed, if no incidents occurred?" Lapraik said.

"But, at the bastion, a stickie was outed by a fellow officer of mine. Imperial policy dictates that any and all xenos be prosecuted without question. I followed Imperial policy to the letter, Colonel. But, uhh, before I could prosecute the xenos, a platoon of stormtroopers with a civilian arrived. They took the xenos away."

Smiling warmly, Lapraik patted Corta on the shoulder. "Combat stress does a lot to hamper one's perception of the battlefield, Lieutenant. It was a tiring journey from the firebase. You led your company well, in the absence of your commanding officer, further distinguishing yourself in the defence of the bastion. The lord castellan respects mettle and prowess shown in combat. He will not overlook this."

"But, the xenos…"

"What xenos?"

Corta stared at the colonel, a dull ringing in his ears. _Did it really happen?_ He began wondering. Leesha D'ambrosia, if she lived, could back up Corta's claim, which was the truth. And who was this strange, young, attractive light colonel of intelligence to put a lid on his claim? Just what was going on?

"The lord castellan." Lapraik pointed up at a flight of three Valkyrie slicks as they appeared over the north-west casemate of the bastion. Their arrival had not gone unnoticed by Zeke, who filled the sky around the three ships with tracers. In response to that, the rooftop snipers picked up their, already considerable, rate of fire.

"There." Lapraik invited Corta over to meet the lord castellan and his sergeant major, who had just disembarked from the centre ship.

"Ma-am?" Corta, having to shout over the roar of the turbines, held back, unsure if his presence was permitted.

"Come on, Lieutenant." Lapraik, suddenly open and friendly, jerked her head in the lord castellan's direction.

Apprehensive at being in the company of the famed general-turned lord castellan of Cadia, Corta kept to Lapraik's shoulder when she hailed the lord castellan.

A smile broke out across Creed's bullish features when he looked over at Lapraik, recognising her. "Well, this is turn up for the books. Good day, Colonel."

"Good day, General. I trust my captain made good his orders?" Lapraik accepted the offered hand and shook.

"That he did, young Don." Creed took an unlit cigar from his mouth and gestured with it. "Our astros are broadcasting far and wide now. Relief should be with us shortly."

"Yes, sir." Lapraik nodded.

 _Don?_ Corta glanced at Lapraik, surprised at the familiarity between the two.

"Sir, let me introduce 2nd Lieutenant Simon Corta." Lapraik turned to allow Creed to see Corta. "He is 144th Battalion, out of Kasr Jark."

"Good day, Lieutenant," Creed growled. "Where, might I ask, is your company commander?"

"My Lord Castellan." Corta bowed.

"Stand up straight when you address a general officer. That officer shall also be referred to by rank, not by appointment." Creed glared.

"Yes, General, sir." Corta straightened up hastily. "C Company's headquarters is in Kasr Jark, sir. I led the remains of the company there after our firebase was overrun. We were barred entry, sir. They shut the gates before we could get inside."

"Bah, no matter. I have a mission for you, Lieutenant. I am in short supply of subalterns and senior NCOs. Report to Twelve Brigade's OC. He shall brief you. Good day."

"Yes, sir," Corta said, taking it as an indicator that he was intended to go away. Before heading inside the bastion with the general, Lapraik looked over her shoulder at Corta and gave him a knowing look. Bemused, Corta blinked and looked away. He felt very inclined to follow through with his report about the xenos, the shooting of D'ambrosia by Larn, and the desertions. The gentle advice by the colonel to forget about the whole thing rubbed him up the wrong way, precisely because of how strongly it went against military regulations and official Imperial policy. But now that it was clear that the colonel had the favour of the lord castellan, Corta began to imagine how detrimental to his career the report would be. Surely Lapraik and, through her, Creed, would make his life a living hell for it. At that, Corta committed the worst offence that any officer could make. He began to doubt himself.

12 Brigade, as it stood, was made up of elements of 2, 3, and 7 Brigade. The Seventh having been mauled during the opening stages of the invasion at Tyrok Fields, with its survivors being folded into an ad-hoc unit of approximately brigade strength with elements of 2 and 3 Brigade. 2 and 3 Brigade, formerly part of 9th Infantry Division, had also been stripped of manpower during their time fighting in I Corps' sector, resulting in a hodgepodge collection of units with no real higher-command structure left after their corps and divisional commanders had been killed. Problems upstairs aside, Corta found, to his consternation, that in 12 Brigade's little corner of the bastion's inner ward, there was not a single officer below the rank of major present, or noncom above the rank of corporal. Further adding gravity to the seriousness of the situation were the vague orders Corta received from the colonel in command of 12 Brigade when Corta introduced himself to the tiny headquarters standing around their OC.

"Clean out the Solarus district, west of here, all the way down to the Kriegan Gates," said the colonel. "You're my only subaltern. I need you to lead R Company from here on."

Taken aback, Corta stared at the cluster of battle-weary Cadians who were sitting with their backs to the concrete wall.

"If you are looking for more instructions, you aren't getting any. You're going," the colonel said flatly. "I want the Kriegan Gates back. So get them back. Don't worry about anything else. You just clean that filth out any way you have to. If you suspect any enemy occupying a building. Blow it down. Don't get dragged into room-to-room actions."

"Yes, sir." Corta swallowed. "These men here. Are they R Company?"

"R Company, Five Battalion. Yes, Lieutenant."

"Would it be alright if I added my people to the company's number, sir?"

"Fine, fine, Lieutenant." The colonel waved his hand dismissively and turned back to his headquarters, taking a vox receiver from one of his signallers, and tucking it between his ear and body armour.

Among the seventeen men that remained with Corta were Corporal Dranno, Lance Corporal Wharton, and Privates Arrigo, Colvin, and Rhidian. Intending to bump Dranno up to brevet sergeant, to compensate for the general lack of sergeants, Corta found he had disappeared.

"Wharton!" Corta called his signaller over. "Where's Dranno. I need him here."

Still lugging his inoperable vox set on his shoulders, Wharton shrugged. "I dunno, sir. He was hereabouts just five minutes ago."

"I need him," Corta muttered. "We've got a mission, Wharton. Tell the others to get ready to move."

"Right, sir."

"Iggery."

"Get me an ammo check too. Make sure the lads have eaten and are hydrated."

"Okay, got it, sir."

 _Where are you, Dranno?_ Corta thought, frustrated at the lack of platoon-level organisation. Without NCOs, there was no way the company could function as a cohesive unit.

At 07:30 precisely, or when Corta's battered chrono said it was 07:30, the sixty-odd Cadians of R Company rose wearily to their feet and picked up their individual pieces. The seventeen grunts of C Company followed. Even leaving the protection of the bastion's walls was a hazardous venture, as it appeared when Corta attempted egress via the southern gate. Extending partway out into the street from the gateway was a ten-foot-wide wall of sandbags, and behind them, Cadians were crouched near firing embrasures, covering the west. The centrepoint of the defence was a 25-millimetre bolter, sitting on a tripod. It too faced westwards, its muzzle aimed at the arrow-straight route that led all the way down to the Kriegan gates; Kraf's westernmost boundary. What brought Corta to heel was the sharp gesture from the corporal in command of the fireteam.

"Hold, sir," the corporal said, raising a hand.

Signalling the main body of the company to wait just inside the gateway, Corta crouched beside the corporal and peered through the embrasure in front of the bolter's muzzle."What have we got, Corporal?"

"The Chaos foe occupies buildings on both sides of this street, around three-hundred yards down from here. Be aware, sir, that he has the road covered with snipers and bolter nests. All I have sent across are single runners. Any more is too great a risk."

"Alright." Plucking a coloured smoke grenade from his webbing, Corta called for a fireteam to consolidate on his position. A Cadian corporal, a woman, slid down into the dirt behind Corta. Four other guardsmen were behind her.

"On your order, sir," the corporal said, shooting a glance behind her at the other members of her fireteam. "Be ready to follow on. Watch your dispersion."

"Once the smoke is up, you run." Corta nodded, receiving a confirmatory nod from the corporal. Squeezing the spoon down, Corta hooked a thumb into the wide ring and worked the stiff pin out. "Okay, standby," he said, throwing the hissing grenade out into the street.

"Standby, Delta," the corporal said.

Zeke's response to the cloud of yellow smoke building up was an aggressive display of force, as what seemed like every weapon in the district, not only snipers and bolters, began targeting the thirty-foot-wide street, filling it with particle beams, rifle rounds, and bolter shells. The mere sound of the fire passing, in some cases, directly over the sandbags, was ungodly. His glassy-eyed expression never faltering, the corporal overseeing the bolter team began shaking his head. "How d'you wish to proceed, sir?" he asked, having to raise his voice to make himself heard.

"Corporal?" Corta looked at the female noncom. She too was giving subtle signs of reluctance. _This isn't going to happen, sir._ She communicated silently, letting her red-rimmed eyes speak for her and her fireteam. _Please don't send us out there_.

 _Okay, new plan_ , Corta conceded. It was pointless frittering away the company's, already thin, numbers. _I suspect it's what they're used to, though. Having their numbers whittled down on a whim._

Corta wasted precious seconds thinking of an alternate route out of the bastion, one that was out of the enemy's line of sight and not too wide a detour. Simple egress from another gate was what he chose and was about to give the order to pull back inside the gate, when a car horn blared over the sharp snaps of the passing rounds. Gobsmacked, Corta, the grunts, and the guardsmen watched as Corporal Dranno drove a Wolf scout car through their midst. Corta recognised the young corporal immediately by his glasses and the piece of camouflaged fabric tied around his neck, and the smug smile he wore. Impatiently honking the horn, Dranno pulled up sharply when Corta rushed over and slammed a hand on the bonnet.

"Don't bother explaining," Corta cried, before Dranno could come out with one. "You're just the job."

"Am I?" Dranno laughed. "I mean – I am."

Having seemingly pulled it out of his backside – or more likely from the graveyard of derelict motor transport that occupied the streets around the bastion – Corporal Dranno had found a Wolf scout car armed with a 106-millimetre recoilless rifle; the setup known as a Corvo. With its doors, windows, and roof removed, the Corvo looked less of an Imperial Guard motor vehicle, and more like something that belonged to a hive gang. But the aesthetics were of no interest to Corta, he had eyes only for the large gun tube, all eleven feet of it. Dranno, bless his unwashed soles, could not have come at a more convenient time.

"Park up parallel to the Cadian's firing position, Corporal. I want your gun aimed west. I'll call out targets to you."

"Roger that, sir." Dranno grinned and gently eased the handbrake off, manoeuvring the Corvo – with some difficulty – so it was parked behind the barricade, to the protests of the Cadians who were forced to move their gun team out of the way.

"Sir?" The female corporal approached Corta, as Dranno and Rhidian traversed the 106 to the right, so the barrel was poking over the top of the sandbags. "Do your men have experience operating the 106?"

Dranno answered her question for her, in a boisterous tone. "'Course we do. We're Cannon Company. It's our job!"

With half a mind to tell the Cadian off for trying to interfere with the gun's operation, and for questioning him, Corta chose, instead, a firm tone, slightly lighter than the one he would have normally taken. For all his experience, he still balked at the thought of mixed-gender combat units and had little more than a vague idea of how to treat female personnel under his command. To him, it was asking for trouble.

"Corporal Dranno is operating the 106, Corporal. He is ably assisted by Private Rhidian," Corta said.

"Watch and learn, Cadian." Dranno caught the corporal's eye and flashed a smile, to her discomposure.

 _Yeah, watch and learn, Cadians._ Corta looked on, a feeling a mixture of worry and approval churn up his insides, as Dranno and Rhidian, amidst enemy fire, operated the 106. Rounds were crackling all around the two young men, who acted completely oblivious to the danger. Damned if Corta wasn't proud of them. He was dead certain that anything the Cadians could do, Cannon could do also. With the warhead slotted into the tube, Rhidian closed the breech and stepped back to allow Dranno to aim the gun with the spotting rifle, mounted above the tube. The single-shot, .50-calibre round acted as an aiming device, and would give a visual indicator – a puff of smoke – of where the warhead would hit.

"Hang on." Dranno, before putting his eye to the sights, removed his glasses and pocketed them. "Much better."

No longer handicapped, Dranno placed his eye against the rubber piece, and called, "ready for a target!"

"Okay, you're looking for a five-storey building. It's three-hundred yards down the road, opposite an identical structure. Sloping rooftop." Corta shouted, his field glasses trained upon the target building. Spotting muzzle flash from that distance was near-impossible.

"Got it."

Anticipating the whip-like crack of the .50, Corta dug his fingers into his ears and waited for Dranno to perform the last fine adjustments to the elevation. After the spotting rifle spoke, Dranno examined where the round had hit and, satisfied, depressed the 106's trigger. Watching the thin streak of white light through narrowed eyes, Corta flinched at the tremendous explosion the weapon made. Equally amazing was the cloud of dirt kicked up by the back blast, almost entirely covering the street, obscuring both the target buildings from them, and the road from the enemy.

 _Clever lad. It was never about hitting his target._ Corta smiled inwardly. Safe in the knowledge that Zeke no longer had a clear line of sight down the street,Corta stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled, ordering R Company to get moving across the street whilst the dust-cloud held. "Good work, Corporal," he said to Dranno.

"Aw, anything to show these Cadians up." Dranno showed his teeth, punching the smaller Rhidian affectionately on the shoulder.

"Yeah, well, just remember we're heading down into the bondo with them. Remember we're on the same side, okay?" Corta raised his eyebrows underneath his cover. "Okay. Now follow us, as best as you can. We'll need the Corvo if we have to cross any more streets."

Elated at being allowed to keep the Corvo, Dranno turned ignition and revved the engine. "Awright, sir, we'll do our best."

Catching the enthusiastic noncom by the shoulder, before he could drive away, Corta delivered the news. "You're sergeant now, Dranno. So bloody well stay alive. That's an order."

"Whack-ho, sir." Dranno gave a thumbs up.

"Bloody good," Corta said to himself as Dranno and Rhidian shot off, driving the Corvo through the interior of a warehouse that was opposite the bastion.

With a third of the company already across the street, and in amongst the buildings on the other side, Corta, with Wharton and the Cannon grunts, made their own way across, maintaining the same dispersion as the Cadians. They received not a single casualty during the crossing of the street, thanks to the unconventional use of the 106. Corta's pride and faith in his tiny handful of grunts would be of little use in the next contact. Corta knew full well that it would be Cadian blood that would run through the streets of the Solarus district in buckets soon, for there was still the matter of the Zekes in the district and the monolithic 200-foot-high Kriegan gates.

* * *

 **Bastion 1, General Headquarters I Corps, 07:22**

Donjeta Lapraik was delighted and astonished to see the lord castellan announce himself within the underground command post by descending the stairs four at a time. To her, Ursarker Creed was a living symbol of victory and honour, and she dearly hoped that his wealth of experience, authority, and determination to never surrender, would add some much-needed resolve to the Guard's efforts. Despite Creed's age, he was a whirlwind of energy, his mere presence enough to stimulate the command staff of I Corps.

Yet however admirable this quinquagenarian's energy levels, it still took time for him to be briefed by Major General Alexis Rebbeck, the 49-year-old OC of I Corps, on the situation, both at the tactical and operational level. With the enemy so close on their doorstep, grand strategy, as was Creed's forté , was impossible. No stranger to insurmountable odds, as Lapraik knew full well, Creed had to have a contingency hidden somewhere. He was Creed. A flatterer might have described the very man as Cadia itself, with the planet now resting solely upon his shoulders.

An admirer, as many throughout the Imperium were, Lapraik watched from the sidelines as Creed and Rebbeck talked with a Marine liaison from the Black Templars' 2 Company, a hulking behemoth in power armour, with shoulder pauldrons emblazoned with his chapter icon – a black cross upon a white background. Even with his helmet held in the crook of his arm, the Marine's shaved head had lost most of its human features to conflict, being a mess of scar tissue and bionic implants. Lapraik would have sooner described the xenos ranger as humanlike, over the biologically-augmented super-soldier.

Not privy to the discussings of the senior officers, Lapraik could only get an inkling of what was happening, by the men's body language and expressions, the way Creed gestured at the holographic map of the Solarus district, which flickered every time a shell exploded above ground. The Templar, remaining stoic for the most part, offered only a few, terse replies to Creed, as if he could barely stand being in the presence of so many normal humans. The O-group went on a full twenty-five minutes before a decision was reached. Lapraik, still ignorant as to what was going on, watched the Marine depart from the command post. Her eyes following the solid wall of armour, along with many other pairs, as it tramped loudly up the stairs, scattering all before it, never checking its pace.

"I have no further use for a colonel of intelligence," Creed said, appearing suddenly beside Lapraik, in the second she had looked away from the table. "See that you are away from here before the day is out."

"Sir?"

"You have performed your duties admirably, Colonel, with the utmost enthusiasm and piety. Blessings of the God-Emperor be upon you. You will not see me again."

"Sir, what are you…?"

Taking Lapraik's shoulder, Creed walked with her out of earshot of the command post's staff. "I intent to take command of Eighth Brigade and lead them, as I did at Tyrok, to buy you and everyone here enough time to evacuate the planet."

"But, there will be more battles to come, sir," Lapraik said, a measure of distraught in her voice. "Cadia is merely the opening act. The Emperor will need the lord castellan's cunning in future operations."

"Cadia is my home. Only when I lie dead and broken upon the Eighth's colours, shall I permit Cadia to fall. But even then, it will be known that the planet broke before the Guard did. Cadia stands, Colonel."

"Cadia stands." Lapraik accepted the warm handshake, feeling herself wither under the stern, fatherly gaze of the old man.

"Go."

* * *

 **East of the Kriegan Gates, Solarus District, 07:50**

Closing to within 100 yards of the giant gates, Corta followed the squad on point down a narrow passage between buildings, where the noise of the fighting was muffled by the enclosed space. On reaching the far end, the cacophony of battle rose once more, so much that it was near-painful to go without any hearing protection. Edging up to the mouth of the passage, Corta leapt back as rifle rounds cracked past, inches from his head. Whether they were aimed or simply strays from other contacts that were carrying on all around him, he could not tell. Near-misses aside, Corta caught sight of a square block of a building on the other side of the street, its wide structure obstructing the company's slow advance towards the Kriegan Gates.

"That's the treasury building, sir," said the guardsman nearest to him.

"Treasury?" Corta yanked away his hand from the wall, when several sharp impacts peppered it with holes.

"It's a warren, sir."

Assessing the area ahead again, Corta waved the Cadian squad forwards, directing them south-west, to where other guardsmen were dug in, outside the treasury building. The exchange of fire between the guardsmen outside, and the Zekes inside, ramped up to thunderous levels as the squad charged across the street, dodging flooded shell craters, particle beams, and rifle rounds. Watching from cover, Corta signalled behind him for a second squad to consolidate on his position, quietly anxious for the men's safety. Three of the ten-man squad took hits, and dropped, two falling out of sight into craters, the third, his knee blown out, landed stiffly on his shoulder but quickly dragged himself out of the line of fire and into a crater.

"Second Squad, go, go!" Corta shouted. _What I wouldn't give for a Rekyl team now_ , he thought, painfully aware of the lack of covering fire from the dug-in guardsmen, who appeared oblivious to the friendlies coming in behind them; at least at first.

"Here come the relief!" A high-pitched scream sounded as Corta zig-zagged after the second squad, throwing himself down beside a Cadian, sub up to his knees in water from a burst pipe.

"By the Emperor, you're—" The Cadian was drowned out by noise as the firing line erupted. M-36s, in their dozens, struck the gutted front of the treasury, the super-heated stone boiling to such an extent that sections began to melt.

"It's here. Relief's here!" A guardsman to Corta's immediate left, shouted.

"Where's—?" Corta slapped the man on the arm, only for him to jerk back, toppling over into the bloody pool. A wheeling screech of artillery broke up the concentration of the lasfire, prompting Corta to cower inside the shell crater, clutching his ceramite to his head as he was showered by rainwater and dirt.

"Where's your commanding officer?" Corta shrieked, spitting out a mouthful of filthy water. "Guardsman!"

"Dead. All dead," the Cadian snarled, without looking up at Corta.

"Bollocks," Corta spat. Lifting his head up, he gestured madly at the waiting R Company men for another squad to come across, simultaneously climbing across the ragged line of Cadians, lifting heads up and grabbing sleeves. Searching for any pips or stripes, giving indication of rank.

"Any officers here?"

Much further down the firing line, perched behind a pile of punctured sandbags and Cadian corpses were, remarkably, two officers that were manning a Rekyl gun. Corta thought nothing odd of the situation until he saw their rank insignia. They were lieutenant colonels; both battalion commanders. With such a breakdown in unit cohesion occurring, the two field-grade officers were simply acting as infantry, with one light colonel firing the Rekyl, and the other loading.

"Sir?" Crouching down beside them, Corta swept half a dozen spent magazines away from where they lay under the Rekyl's firing position. There were many more lying around too, dotted amongst the slew of bodies.

"Twelfth magazine," the loader said as he fitted a fresh box into the weapon. His declaration also warned the gunner that the weapon was in danger of overheating, after so many rounds had been fired through it; necessitating a barrel change.

Seeing the thin wisps of smoke rising from the barrel, Corta dug his fingers into the sodden barrel bag and came out with a fresh barrel. "Colonel, I'm—"

"—Better be bringing me the battalion I requested, Lieutenant," the colonel who was loading, snapped.

Handing the officer the fresh barrel, Corta explained that his unit was not a relief column, further adding, "we're just a single company, sir."

"How many?" The loader unlatched the old barrel by its carry handle and slotted the new barrel in. The process took him nine seconds.

"Less than eighty, sir."

"Not enough." The other colonel cut in over his fellow officer. "It is not enough. We withdraw in good order before the Chaos foe assaults us."

"Sir, I've orders to push Zeke from the district and consolidate at the Kriegan gates," Corta replied.

"From whom?"

"Twelve Brigade, sir. The colonel was adamant that we were not to withdraw under any circumstances. He wants Zeke out of the district."

"Is he aware of the tactical situation here?"

"I don't know. I didn't stop to question him," Corta fumed. Realising he had hit a brick wall, he was reduced to simmering in silence, awaiting the colonel's decision. Regarding that, whose decision was it to make if both men were of equal rank. This, predictably, led to a heated argument, bellowed between bursts of the Rekyl. Nothing more than an observer, Corta started when a Cadian wearing a vox on his back flopped against the earthen bank next to him. Thinking the man dead, for a split-second, Corta reached down to check, only to find the guardsman was very much alive and kicking.

"Sir, I've come from GHQ, sir." The Cadian, in khakis but wearing the insignia of the Imperial Navy on his breast, thrust a receiver at Corta. "I've got MAG One-five on the line, sir. They've got Stormravens standing-by."

 _About bloody time we had Marine support_ , Corta thought, directing the forward air controller to pass the vox to one of the colonels. Leaning over, the FAC tapped the colonel assisting the Rekyl gunner with the vox handset.

"Who are—?" The colonel's face screwed up as he was sprayed with the FAC's blood. Pierced in the shoulder by a well-aimed lasbeam, the FAC's fingers slackened. Either dead or unconscious, Corta could not tell. The colonel, more concerned with the dropped vox handset, picked it up from the mud and shook dirt from the bag in which the handset was sealed, ducking as further gunfire perforated the sandbags around the Rekyl. "This is Fargo Four-Zero. Over."

Deaf to the exchange between the colonel and the Marine pilots, Corta scooted back up the firing line, counting the heads of the men he recognised. On finding Sergeant Dranno, Corta forced a wedge in the tightly-packed guardsmen, and squeezed in next to Dranno, cupping a hand over his ear. "Where's the Corvo?"

"Left it further back. Street surface was fucked." Dranno followed with a string of hearty curses against Zeke and their mothers. "Not necessarily in that order, sir."

"Find the rest of the guys and report back to me. Understood?"

"Ho, sir!"

 _Bloody cheeky Zeke_ , Corta grumbled, annoyed that the company's only artillery had now been neutralised by the enemy, the news turning his mood black. Corta's inner frustrations were mitigated somewhat by a pair of Marine gunships, Stormravens, soaring overhead. _They're checking out the target building_. With no indicator as to where their allies were in conjunction with the treasury, Corta guessed the Marines would require a smoke indicator before fully committing to their attack run.

"Sir, are the gunships coming?" Corta asked the colonel, when he made it back to the Rekyl's position.

"CAS will only come in once they've got positive ID on friendly positions," the colonel shouted back. "Give me a smoke marker."

"Roger." Corta wiggled the pin from a coloured smoke grenade; it had a red band around it.

"Tamale, we are marking our position with smoke. It is the colour you see when you are angry. I say again, it is the colour you see when you are angry. Over." The colonel nodded at Corta, who tossed the primed smoke into the street behind them. Receiving confirmation of the placement of friendlies, the two gunships banked sharply out of sight.

"Tell the men to get small in their holes. We've got ordnance coming in over our heads," the colonel ordered.

Falling back on his training, Corta automatically sprung from the colonel's Rekyl nest and ran behind the Cadians, ignoring the eager rounds yapping at his heels, spreading the word that Marine air would be making short work of the treasury.

"Heads down and cover your ears, lads," Corta exclaimed, ending up sandwiched between Arrigo and Colvin. The three crammed fingers inside ears as the howl of the two Stormravens bordered their pain threshold and made the ground tremble. Unable to see the missiles in flight, Corta was conscious of a bubble of invisible force, rolling outwards from the treasury, and violently shaking his body and others around him. A heartbeat after the shockwave paralysed the guardsmen, the treasury was engulfed in an enormous grey cloud, blotting out the sky. Hot fragments of concrete rained down on Corta, warming patches of his fatigues and staining them with soot. Gongs banged inside his head. Half-stunned, Corta fell into a stupor, overcome with drowsiness and a desire to sleep. Repetitive thumps intruded upon the inviting slumber, pummelling the ground underneath Corta's prone body, shocking him to his senses. Arrigo and Colvin, their mouths spouting questions Corta's ears were deaf to, gaped in fear as something massive reared up from the smoke. A monstrous being with grinding, clanking limbs. Each footfall it took, the crash of a 132-millimetre Basilisk shell tearing a claw-shaped crater into the earth. Convinced the very ground was coming apart, Corta shrunk from the fifty-foot monstrosity as it stomped through the flattened treasury building, its hunched-over body swivelling on its mounting; the muzzles of its long-nosed batteries glowing. Of a greenish-metallic hue, the beast bore chaotic markings and was bedecked in rusted spikes and dripping clumps of hair. Underneath its chin, a single infected eye bulged.

"CEASE FIRE!" Corta beat the muzzle of Arrigo's IM away, when Arrigo fired up at the beast's underbelly. To Corta's fury, the effect was spontaneous. Every other rifle, lasgun, and automatic let fly, spattering the armoured hide uselessly. So pathetic it was, that the beast took no notice, lumbering towards the Cadian line, undeterred.

"Get down!" Corta dragged at Arrigo and Colvin, hauling them flat as a clawed foot gouged out huge clods of dirt in front of them, seemingly oblivious to the pin-pricks of damage it was taking. Corta tried worming his way deeper into the ground, Colvin and Arrigo emulating him when it dawned upon them that what they were shooting at was impervious to small-arms fire. Their screams of terror were silenced when the foot fell upon Corta, shutting out the light completely.

* * *

 **Valkyrie 229, Kraf Airbase, 08:13**

Donjeta Lapraik had little clue as to what was happening outside General Headquarters. Even the officer of Intelligence, normally the most well-informed branch of service, was not being kept up to speed on the rapidly-deteriorating situation in Kraf.

Sitting alone in the troop bay of a Slick, Lapraik watched the ruined streets pass by below, listlessly counting down the final minutes she would spend on Cadia. It was the smell, creeping through the hatch and doors, turning her nostrils, that took over her thoughts then. Unclipping her safety harness, Lapraik knelt on the deck and, gripping the net fastened to the bulkhead, leant out over the lowered ramp, simultaneously intrigued and reviled at the muggy, oily musk that rose in spades from the airbase. Looking on, Lapraik pressed her forearm to her nose when the Slick flew through a column of black smoke, the warm stench of it making her eyes water. Drawing back, Lapraik gagged through her gloved hand, stifling the growing tickle in her throat. _By the Emperor, what is that?_ She wondered, moving over to the portside door gun, taking the headset the gunner offered her.

"Fuel depots, ma-am. They're burning everything before Zeke gets here," the gunner said, his face a hidden behind his breathing mask. "We're not long for Cadia now, I fear."

Shocked by the defeatist attitude, Lapraik's fingers clenched around the sharp metal of the doorframe. "What is your name and rank?"

In a casually insubordinate manner, the gunner leant on his weapon and pointed a finger at the thick pall of smoke. "There."

Lapraik promptly forgot about delivering the tongue-lashing when the Slicks broke through the smoke, showing the scene below. "Oh, my god," she cried. Kept so out-of-the-loop, her well-ironed composure, maintained impeccably, collapsed the very moment she laid eyes upon the airbase. It was an eerie sight. Bombs, fires, smoke, and fumes, of such scale that the place looked like a firebrand, conveyed, to her, a grim understanding of just how bad the situation was. Carpeting the base's grounds, not just the facilities but the runways and landing pads too, was a literal human carpet. Lapraik imagined them like ants, in such staggering numbers they were. There were enough people down on the ground to make the base – all square kilometres of it – look crowded.

A wide ring was formed around the Slick as it made the gentle descent, its thrust nozzles blasting the masses with hot air. Believing the craft to be setting down upon a landing pad, Lapraik realised the pilot was putting down on a grassy verge, little more than mud now, with all the feet that had been trampling it. To the colonel's alarm, the portside door was approached by a few hopeful souls who pawed at her, as if she could somehow grant them deliverance.

"I don't know. I don't know," were Lapraik's repeated responses to the multitude of questions that bombarded her, over the ear-rending sound of the Slick's engines. What on Terra had happened to funnel so many displaced personnel and refugees into one place? If evacuation was being carried out, then where were the vessels to transport them off-world?

"Make way there!" Lapraik shouted. "Officer coming through." Her continued bluster, when her demands were continually ignored by the hordes of ashen-faced, exhausted troops, petered out, leaving her stumbling around, looking for any officer that might guide her over to who was in charge of the utter shambles that crowded the airbase. Demoralised into impotence, many of the guardsmen, Cadian or otherwise, had cast aside their arms or armour somewhere back along the line, and wore only their uniforms; some not even that, exposing their filthy, dirt and grease-stained skin to the open air. Under any normal circumstances, Lapraik would have stopped to berate the sorry excuses for guardsmen, who had chosen cowardice over meeting the enemy in battle, or perhaps even called for a commissar to come down upon them. If any were around though, they were not making themselves known as they should have been. With the breakdown in discipline and the stalling of the evacuation men frolicked about, playing ball games, snoozing, consuming alcohol taken from Emperor-knew where, or tussling with others over trivial matters of food – the scarcity of it leading to fights breaking out over hunks of bread and dry biscuits that were often left trampled and unconsumable when the belligerents forgot why they were brawling in the first place; preferring to fight one another just for the hell of it, receiving encouraging cheers from onlookers.

Reminders of just how close Zeke was to the shrinking perimeter – surely between ten and twenty kilometres now – came in the form of sporadic shellfire, rocketing down to explode, sometimes in the very midst of a hopeful group of soldiers, waiting with their eyes looking up into space. Fearful of the fish-in-a-barrel predicament now, Lapraik listened to the distant pops of gunfire rolling over the massed evacuees, beginning to imagine what would happen when Zeke breached the boundary walls. Barely keeping a lid upon her growing despair, Lapraik's rank and branch of service was beginning to mean very little to her now. _We're in the same shit_ , she thought sadly. _Throne of Terra, let there not be a slaughter here._ Capitulation, to her, seemed unthinkable, especially after all the hardships she had endured since the crash and the journey to Kraf, fraught with danger as it was. Now, after coming so far, the prospect of a mass surrender was soul-crushing. It did indeed appear that surrender was looming on the horizon, what with the large piles of small-arms stacked against the gently curving wall of a bombed-out aircraft hangar that Lapraik passed by. Galaxy Short Pattern lasguns, M-36 Kantraels, chunky 25-millimetre bolters, every infantry weapon from the 8-inch combat knife, up to man-packed howitzers in their hundreds, if not their thousands, had been left behind. Turning her gaze to the smoke-tainted, cloud-ridden sky, Lapraik shook her head deplorably, resigned to silent bitterness at the haze of defeat that hung over the airbase. A short way further on, the colonel was buffeted by pages torn out of the Infantryman's Primer, blown about by the wind, the smell of burning paper taking centre stage over the potent stink of bodies, alcohol, and ash. That the men were even burning personal documentation, including their individual copies of the Primer, to be kept under care at all times on threat of summary execution, mortified Lapraik. Stumbling backwards, her gaze fixed on the blazes being stoked inside the fuel drums, she collided with a long file of walking wounded, accidentally barging through them but receiving not so much a discontented mutter. Glazed-over eyes followed irregular patterns, their owner's fragile shells of the men they had once been, so traumatised by the combat they had seen. Unaware such ailments could affect Imperial Guardsmen, Lapraik stared at them in confusion, only being forced to move when a Hennus lorry bringing up the rear of the file honked its horn at her. With the canvas panels passing within a mere foot of her, Lapraik clutched her nose when she smelt the infected flesh the meatwagon bore.

Batting the dust away from her face, Lapraik spotted a naval officer at the head of a small shore party, striding through the chaos. "Lieutenant?" She raised a hand in greeting, jogging over to the armed contingent, hoping the officer would bring her up to speed on the developments. "Good morning, Lieutenant."

"Ma-am," the reply came tersely, with an undertone of vexation to it.

"Are you in command here, Lieutenant?"

"Command bunker to the north-east, Colonel. Captain Meynell will fill you in."

With that, the lieutenant veered off to the left, taking his party with him. The officers and ratings accompanying him passed Lapraik without comment, leaving her to her own devices once more. _North-east. Captain Meynell._

The few people of authority remaining to oversee the evacuation were set up in an anti-aircraft bunker reinforced by sandbags, in the shadow of the north-east corner of the boundary wall. One of the few structures that had escaped the bombing. A Hyperios missile turret, its magazines long since spent, rested dormant upon the rooftop. In smaller, tertiary emplacements were pom-pom guns, their barrels ruptured, their sights broken. All that remained to guard from air attack were IM and Tranta stubbers fixed on anti-aircraft mounts, their hollow-eyed crews watching the skies warily. The bunker was occupied by only half a dozen men. Two officers, a commander and a captain, were listening to a vox set. A colonel of the Imperial Logistics Corps was there too. He was the only Guard officer present.

"I need you to represent me at a conference aboard Goliath this afternoon, Commander. Find me extra officers for the shore party," the grimy-faced, bareheaded captain said. Lapraik imagined he was about fifty years old, what with the fast receding blond hairline and wrinkles.

"I've no problem with that, sir," the commander replied. He looked about ten years younger than his superior, and had a funny drawl to his voice, suggesting that he was not Cadian-born.

"Good morning, Captain. May I ask what is happening here?"

"Nothing," the captain, Meynell presumably, practically spat. "You couldn't have come at a worse time, Colonel. If you're looking for passage off-world, you're out of luck." To the command he said, "best get moving, Jack."

"Right, sir." The commander adjusted his gun belt and popped his cover over his bald head, nodding politely at Lapraik when he passed her.

"Don?" The Guard officer beside Meynell had a look of surprise on his face, at seeing the newcomer.

"Will?" Lapraik's composure was further ruffled when she recognised Colonel Willem Venant; an acquaintance of hers in the past. "What's – what's happening?"

Leaving Captain Meynell where he was, Venant came over to Lapraik. He was unshaven, late several days for one. His grey eyes too were tinged with red; the product of several sleepless nights. "We're in a bit of pickle here right now," he said quietly, enough to not be overheard. "Everything's in limbo."

"Throne, you look done in, Will." Lapraik sighed.

"Likewise, Don." Venant clasped Lapraik's forearm.

"Are you in command here? Tell me you are in command, and we can sort this out." Lapraik gripped his in return.

"This is officially a joint operation, Don. But I'm leaving overall command to Captain Meynell and Commander Cudden." Shrugging, Venant added, "I'm just a colonel of logistics. Not really attuned to naval matters."

"I'm not sure our branch of service means much anymore, Will." Lapraik smiled. "This colonel of intelligence found a home in the infantry."

"Erm, alright. Let's go outside, I'll catch you up out there. Would you like a brew?"

Cradling two brown pint mugs, both colonels leant against the sandbag wall outside the bunker and watched the activity on the base, or lack thereof. In a moment of peacefulness, the skies were free of aircraft. No bombs fell. The wind had even snatched away the smell.

"Emperor strike me down for saying it. But it's been complete chaos here. Pricklish, I might add, what with our forces falling back here, and the barbarians at the gate."

"No ships till nightfall?"

"'Fraid so." Venant swirled the black liquid in his mug despondently. "I'd like to think we are giving a good account of ourselves, against the bombers at least. But we are fast running out of ammunition. You've seen just how low morale has fallen out there, surely. It'll take a miracle to get us out of this mess."

"Our duty as subjects of the Emperor is to fight to the last man."

Scoffing, Venant said, "our duty, right now, is to survive. If even a few of us escape then that is enough to deny the enemy total victory; if annihilation is what he seeks, which he does."

"The lord castellan—"

"—Will hold the perimeter for as long as he is able. Our standing orders are to get as many personnel off-world as we can."

Swirling the murky contents of his mug around, Venant flicked the remains onto the ground.

"Right now, all we have is time. Pray, come nightfall, that we are blessed with a flotilla of personnel ships, sent by the Emperor himself."

 _Time_. Lapraik imagined a giant clock. A seemingly-infinite, _tick-tick-tick_ , slowly counting away the minutes the defenders of Cadia had left. The end was coming. She could feel it.

* * *

 **The Catacombs**

Gasping, as the water lapped at the underside of my chin, I pulled off my ceramite, letting it drop into the depths past my feet. Sticking the chemlight between my teeth, I struggled to loosen the clasps of my body armour, the rush of water loud over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. Water-distorted screams from behind me invoked a bubble of terror welling inside my stomach.

Cyrano's strained voice was in my ear. "Get a light up there."

"Can't," I cried, unable to remove the chemlight from my teeth, where both my hands were occupied with the clasp of my belt kit.

"Izuru!" I blurted, my feet losing purchase upon the ledges; both now deep underwater.

"Hang on." Izuru dug a hand into my belt, hoisting me above the water, the chemlight in her other hand sailing up into the mouth of the shaft.

"Get someone up there. Boost 'em up!" Gale howled, occupied with keeping Azar's from slipping beneath the churning water.

"You first, James." Cyrano, second only to Izuru in height, gripped me underneath the armpits.

Fighting against the larger man, I ripped the teeth-mark covered chemlight from my mouth. "No, the Cadians first. Sarn't, get your men up here!"

Still unable to unfasten the thick clasp holding the belt around my waist, I trod water, spluttering when I fell under, resurfacing only after kicking about like a madman. Both Izuru and Cyrano were occupied with heaving the Cadians up to the shaft, one by one. When the six were through, Gale and Azar were sent up.

"Come on, James, your turn." Cyrano lifted me up bodily.

Again, I fought him, adamant he was going first. "Cyrano, get going," I shrieked. "Izuru, help him."

"You be right behind me," Cyrano replied, thrusting his cavalry cover into the mouth, when Izuru threw him upwards.

"Now you, James." Izuru gathered me in her embrace and prepared to deliver me into the narrow mouth, which the waterline was coming dangerously close to meeting.

"No. The belt." I squirmed, still fumbling with my belt kit. With the passage narrowing, the prospect of jamming myself inside, leading to a slow, painful suffocation, stirred such a morbid feeling of dread inside me, I contemplated sending Izuru ahead, so as not to risk trapping her if I wedged myself.

Water streaming from her face, Izuru bared her teeth at me. "James. Leave it."

"No," I protested as my body was launched from the water. My feet and calves remained submerged as I pulled myself into the tunnel, kicking the fading chemlight behind me, for Izuru to bring with her. "Izuru, bloody move."

"Well, would you?" her voice rang in my ears, spurring me on when it became clear that she was having no trouble keeping up with me. For that matter, neither was the tide. Gushing up behind me, the tide soaked the tunnel in icy water, making my hands slip over the now-slick surface. Receiving a shove from Izuru, I wriggled my waist as my belt kit dragged at the sides of the narrow passage. Spitting my dead chemlight out, I pawed at the darkness ahead, praying for a relent in the claustrophobic confines, struck with a tang of guilt when I remembered Izuru's own fear of tight spaces.

"Where's it gone?" I bleated, in near-hysterics, when both of my hands found a surface barring me.

"Down. Down!"

Slapping at a downwards curve, I slithered forwards. With the gradient increasing, I began picking up speed, diving head downwards, the widening tunnel denying me grip, with nothing but the pouches at my waist preventing me from shooting down into nothing.

"Izuru," I bawled, crying out when the top of my head struck a hard surface. Limply, I let my momentum run away from me, dimly aware of a sudden sharp stop, a moment of weightlessness, and a deep submerging in the watery depths.

* * *

 **The Treasury Building, Solarus District, 08:29**

Bursting out of the earthen blanket, Corta gulped down lungfuls of air, coughing up little bits of earth that had found a home in his mouth and lodged in his teeth. "Arrigo! Colvin!" he wheezed, snatching at the limbs poking out of the wrecked firing line, around him. "Answer me!"

Extricating the two grunts from their shallow, would-be graves, Corta laughed in relief when both regained their senses, coughing and retching violently.

"Aw, felt like I've been trodden on," Arrigo sniffed, beating the loose earth from his sleeves.

"Hah. You can tell your kids you went hand-to-hand with a Titan." Colvin, as grubby as his mate, thumped Arrigo on the back. "Speaking of…"

"Aah, he's gone, lads," said Corta, eyeing the trail of destruction through the habs the Titan had left. Thank the Emperor, it had wandered off to the south; likely looking for choicer targets. "Stay here, you two. I'm going to check on the others."

With the levelling of the treasury, and the twin gouges torn through what remained of the foundations, all resistance had ceased. Whilst engagements were still taking place in the nearby vicinity, a calm had settled upon the waste ground, where the great building had once stood.

"Come on, lads. Guns up." Corta moved amongst R Company, checking for casualties. "You okay, Rhidian?" he asked, shaking the young man's shoulder.

"Uh, fine. Fine, sir," Rhidian stammered, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. His .338 was still half-buried in the dirt, by his knees.

"Take your rifle, Private. Clear that action too."

"Yes, sir." Dragging his battered IM rifle out, Rhidian unclipped the magazine and blew on the brass, accidentally getting spittle over the rounds.

"Okay, wipe it off. Now clear your chamber, Private," Corta said, kneeling next to Rhidian.

"Sir." Rhidian jiggled his rifle's charging handle, expelling a round from the chamber as well as dirt that had got inside the bore.

"Here, load this." Corta passed Rhidian his emergency .338 magazine he carried in his belt kit.

"Thank you, sir." Rhidian worked the full magazine in and chambered the rifle.

"Just like Phase One, Private."

Hugging his rifle to his chest, Rhidian nodded vigorously. "Sir."

"Sir?" Wharton was at Corta's shoulder.

"Wharton." Corta glanced at the ashen-faced signaller. "You hit?"

"No, sir. The colonels both got it. That Navy bloke took on real estate too."

"Bugger to that one." Corta's heart sank.

"I got his vox. I've been trying to call MAG One Five. They're not answering."

"Okay, keep trying."

Dranno, also in one piece, fell down next to Corta. "Bloody Titan's gone on a bimble south, sir. We're good for now."

"Forget the Titan for now. Sarn't, I want you to get a rough headcount of the Cadian mob. Grab any noncoms, any warrant officers, any subalterns you can find and send 'em over here."

"Right, sir." Digging his heels into the earth, Dranno took off.

 _Throne, please let me not be the only officer_ , Corta thought, biting down upon his apprehension. He had never commanded anything larger than a platoon-sized unit, and by the look of things, the Cadians were in at least company strength; several hundred men, all looking for leadership. He could not command that number by himself. Without NCOs to hold the guardsmen together, cohesion would quickly be lost once the shooting started.

Corta's on-the-fly decision to give Dranno a brevet sergeantcy had paid dividends, as the newly-bestowed sergeant returned quickly with three Cadian non-commissioned officers, neither of whom looked at all fazed by the steel giant that had just torn through their line. They gave their names as Denali and Salveron; the former a sergeant, the latter, a corporal. The third was the female corporal that had tried to wrest control of the 106 from Dranno and Rhidian. She, a tad begrudgingly, gave her name as Vassella.

"Well, alright, Denali, Vassella, Salveron. You're with me. I'm Lieutenant Corta. That's Sarn't Dranno. How many trigger-fingers have we got?"

Dranno snapped his fingers. "Err, two-seventy…"

"279," Sergeant Denali said stonily. "Exactly, sir."

"Alright, 279. Sarn't Denali, Corporal Salveron, Corporal Vassella. I need you to organise your guardsmen into sections."

The Cadians looked at one another, confusedly, giving Corta pause. "Squads. Form squads," he said, remembering that Cadians operated in squads instead of sections. "Iggery."

Further bemused glances were exchanged, until Corta jerked his head at the three. "Get moving."

With the Cadian NCOs chivvying the disorganised rabble into some semblance order, Corta told Dranno to bring up the Corvo, and tack on behind the lead platoon once it was assembled.

"Any luck with the air, Wharton?"

"Nothing, sir," Wharton replied. He was fiddling with the FAC's vox, which he had positioned across his chest. "They can hear me. They're just not answering."

"Alright, just keep on it. And stay out of the line of fire, too. You're our only link with air support."

Corta then took it upon himself to check the colonels and recover their identity disks, finding the two bodies crushed together, and the rent steel of the Rekyl that was pressed into the mess of skin and twisted, broken fingers of bone.

 _God-Emperor_. Corta made the sign of the Aquila. All he recognised was part of a colonel's face; a thicker hunk skin around the nose and right eye. He could not tell whose face it came from. Both sets of identity tags were as deformed as the bodies, being too mangled to read.

 _Next time, will I be the one who gets it?_ Corta wondered, running his thumb underneath the black stubble on his chin, pondering on the ifs, the whens, and the infinite possibilities of war.

In the dreary mid-morning light, the scratch company of Cadians and Cannons advanced across the barren grid, squad-by-squad. In the vanguard, the scouts, led by Dranno, prowled cautiously ahead with eyes alert for surprises. Every now and again, a single shell would explode nearby, making everybody fall flat, as fresh sod was thrown upwards, the dirt mist obscuring the way ahead.

Pausing, a few feet behind the thinly-spaced vanguard platoon, led by Corporal Salveron, Corta watched with Wharton, as Dranno waved the platoon forward, motioning them to keep close to the ground. One hand on his M-36, the other gripping the plastic bag holding the vox receiver; for all the good it would do, Corta followed in the vanguard's wake, keeping an eye on the half-dozen scouts, further ahead. Dranno, on point, was erring on the side of caution, stopping to check the ground for booby-traps every twenty-or-so feet. His assault weapon, a .45 Lecta, had two magazines clipped together to maintain a high volume of fire. Dranno's suspenders were also festooned with smoke, frag, and concussion grenades. He had left the Corvo with Colvin and Arrigo, preferring to lead from the front; a decision Corta felt better about. He wanted Rakka veterans front and centre, hopefully even showing the Cadians a thing or two. _Imagine being shown up on your home turf by upstart grunts._ Were Corta Cadian, he would be hopping mad about an off-worlder leading his company.

It happened with the suddenness of lightning. From hidden positions, two 25-millimetre bolters churned. One of the scouts was caught squarely in the chest, and the upper part of his body was turned into a shower of seared, torn flesh. The stubby little shells, exploding a moment after hitting a target, blew bloody holes through the vanguard, scattering them. As if the fire were a pre-arranged signal for action, all hell erupted. From a dozen points in the broken walls overlooking the street, where the sun shone through in narrow shafts, came bursts of automatic fire. Amid the whizzing steel, Corta sheltered at the side of the road R Company was stalled on, his sweating hand still holding the vox receiver, ducking as the Cadians opened up with their M-36s.

"Where are the Leman Russes?" A Cadian closeby fumed. A scream rose from a wounded man. The Zeke artillery began a barrage, dropping rounds to the rear, forming a wall between the company and the possibility of retreat. With escape cut off, a second barrage was hurled directly upon them. Flames spurted; and the earth seemed to roll weirdly. From ahead, to the right, and behind came a cry for medics – medicae, as the Cadians apparently referred to them as. The Cadian's mass fire – blind shooting – was meant to still the enemy guns until the pointmen were close enough to pry out their positions. But Zeke was dug in too deeply. The fiery blanket woven by their guns, unending. _We might as well be hurling naked bodies at a wall of spears,_ Cortathought, seething at the deadlock the company was caught in.

A lobbed smoke grenade, delivered by Dranno, who was pinned down at the very front, attracted the blistering hell of flame and whining metal. So close to the enemy's muzzles Dranno was, for the moment, occupying a defilade. His smoke, popped in the middle of the uneven mess of rubble in the centre of the street, drew Zeke's fire. Lying flat on his stomach, Dranno primed a concussion grenade and, bellying forward with grenade and Lecta held in both hands, rolled the bomb into the crude embrasure, past the spitting muzzle of a bolter. Bursting amongst the Zekes, the concussion grenade brought silence to the gun pit, until Dranno, getting to his knees, thrust his canted Lecta into the opening and fired, sweeping the weapon's stubby barrel right to left. With the nest cleaned, Dranno crawled on all fours over the jagged parapet, falling inside. From the opening, he displayed a raised thumb. _All Clear_.

Singing out for the vanguard platoon leader, Corta found his voice was drowned out. Only after several hoarse bellows, hurled towards the point, did Salveron stick his head up from where he had taken cover.

"Salveron, consolidate on Dranno." Corta jabbed a finger at Salveron then at Dranno. "Get moving or we're gonna lose momentum."

Signalling that he had got the order, Salveron threw a squad forwards, keeping his remaining fireteams pushing out a base of fire on the Zeke emplacements.

"Go on. Get another squad forwards. Hurry!" Corta muttered feverishly, when he saw Salveron had remained stationary, instead of immediately exploiting the scout's gains, with a second squad to reinforce the first. What Salveron did was move a squad up the righthand side of the street, into the smoke, then lead his own squad after the first squad and the scouts. Corta had not ordered it, but the Cadians quickly began bashing through window holes, and worming their way out of Zeke's line of fire; using the rooms to close with the enemy, and assault with grenades. The brigade OC's order to blow up any building housing enemy was a fantastical dream, for it seemed every single structure along the street contained pockets of Zeke. With no alternative – the streets were killing zones – Corta paused to give orders to the platoon's behind, getting ahold of Corporal Vassella. "Vassella, take the right flank. Keep in touch with Sarn't Dranno."

"Right flank, sir."

Adapting to the change in orders swiftly, Vassella reorganised her squads into fireteams, for the upcoming close-range engagements, and took them into the buildings to the right. Anticipating an assault in the near-future, many of the Cadians began fixing their 8-inch bayonets over their M-36's flash hiders. The few Cannons still in possession of their IM rifles left their own 12-inch blades off, preferring to let the more-versatile lasguns take the point. Those with KAs and Vintok carbines unfolded their blades and locked them into place. Anybody with grenades tore off the adhesive strips they had tied around the spoons; neglect would lead to death.

With the engagement distance narrowed to less than twenty feet, Dranno and the scouts had become just another fireteam, albeit they were the first to assault the structures Zeke had dug himself into. Beginning with the six scouts lining up behind a crumbling wall, with rounds and lasbeams hurtling through the air, Dranno let the spoon fly off his grenade and cooked it for a second, hoping the fuse was cut correctly. Then, with a Cadian scout providing a distraction at the other end of the wall, Dranno rounded the corner and bowled the smoking grenade overarm. "Cover us. We're going in!"

Even before the grenade had gone off in the destroyed corner of the building, Dranno was crossing the short stretch of waste ground, dipping up and down in the shell-holes, aiming for the smoke-filled opening. Vaulting inside, Dranno kicked at the bodies of three Zekes lying intimately with one another, checking to see if any were faking, before waving the other scouts up. As pairs of boots landed on the floor, Dranno motioned for quiet. From above, the deep chudder of a bolter announced that Zeke still had holdings over the building. Holding his Lecta up to his shoulder, Dranno leant out of the door that looked down the central corridor, finding it carpeted with debris but clear of Zeke. Treading carefully down the narrow passage, Dranno noticed a door out of the corner of his eye that was half ajar. Nodding at it, he placed his Lecta into his hip and stitched a rough circle in the thin alloy, the rapid chatter of the automatic magnified immensely by the confines of the building. Swiftly following up with a solid kick, Dranno and a Cadian aimed reflexively at a Zeke whose back was pressed against the opposite wall. Dranno's burst had done for him though. Still holding a Kazalak tightly to his chest, the Zeke slowly slid down the wall, a pained expression occupying his broad, craggy features. Relieving him of his rifle, Dranno passed it to a Cadian and went back out into the corridor, reaching a small stairwell around a corner. Backed up by the other scout's M35s, Dranno edged up the stone steps, awaiting the flash of a Zeke rifle from the first floor. Propellant and dust followed him as he made a 90-degree turn, the acrid bite tickling his nostril hairs and pricking his tongue. Pointing the finned barrel ahead of him, Dranno loosed off a burst when a Zeke bounded out of a passage on the first floor. It wasn't until the Cadians, stacked up behind Dranno on the stairwell, ripped into the lone Zeke with their lasguns, that Dranno realised the man was unarmed. Toppling headfirst down the stairs, the Zeke was kicked aside by the Cadians, leaving him in a crumpled heap. Wary of more Zeke, and the possibility of grenades being rolled down to them, Dranno bulled up the steps, driven on by the sounds of the bolter, which was still operating. The gunners either oblivious to the enemy assault, or they just didn't care. No other Zekes rushed from the rooms on either side of the corridor. Only the bolter remained. Just where it was firing from exactly confounded Dranno as he and the scouts tiptoed through the rooms, ducking into holes blown in the walls and eyeing any corners or cubbyholes that might have hidden solitary Zekes. When they had traversed the entire floor, with the exception of the room where the bolter nest was, Dranno leant back against the wall next to the sealed door, unclipping a fragmentation grenade from his webbing, dropping the pull ring at his feet. A clatter from a loose pipe that Dranno had leant against brought a stop to the bolter's thumping. Silence hung in the building. The Cadians winced.

" _Boot the door_ ," Dranno mouthed to the Cadian nearest him. Nodding, the Cadian drew back his boot and, at the same time he kicked open the door, Dranno threw the primed frag to another Cadian, who gently propelled the bomb underarm through the gap. With the crack, and resulting lethal fragments spraying around the room, Dranno wheeled inside, pumping slugs into the motionless bodies of the Zekes that were lying around a 25-millimetre bolter, mounted in a window. With the two seconds of firing leaving his ears ringing, Dranno looked around the room, and nearly leapt out of his skin when he saw a face poking through a hole in the wall. Jerking his Lecta's trigger, Dranno managed only two rounds before the bolt slammed closed over the empty magazine.

"Hunh. A quickdraw," one of the Cadians remarked dryly.

It was a mirror. Dranno had burned his ammunition at his own reflection.

"Shit," he said, staring at the shards of broken glass as they fell in pieces. Frantic bursts of gunfire drew Dranno to the window. In the street below, a Mark VII tank was rolling backwards, the Zekes around it exchanging fire with the Cadians. Blind to the obstacles behind, the tank grounded itself when it reversed against a sharp berm, stalling in place whilst the infantry continued to fall back along the street, leaving it bogged down. Realising the initiative was within their grasp, the Cadians cast themselves from their positions, letting out a collective bellow. War cries flying from spit-flecked lips, the men in dirty khaki rushed past the stranded tank, delivering a hail of fire, amid swinging buttstocks and plunging bayonets, speeding the enemy in their wayward flight.

"That's it. Give it to 'em, Cadians." Dranno grinned. "Hey, give us a hand." He heaved the chunky steel body of the bolter up into firing position. "Feed me."

With a Cadian holding the thick belt of shells straight, Dranno fired the heavy automatic weapon down at the tank, bouncing the gyrojet rounds off the top armour. At such an angle, the fire did little but confuse the crew, who were buttoned up inside the vehicle. A tank-killing variant with a long gun tube, the machine was ill-suited for close-range infantry combat, lacking sponsons, with only a bow gun and a coaxial stubber for defence. Undeterred by their lack of tank-killing weaponry, the Cadians swarmed aboard from the rear, clambering on top of the engine deck, brandishing grenades. All the tank crew had to do was sit tight and let the Cadians hammer uselessly on the locked hatches. Dranno, from his vantage point, spotted the commander's hatch opening a crack. With the chatter and crash of combat echoing in the surrounding streets, it was impossible for Dranno to shout down to the Cadians. But the warning he intended to give was not necessary. A moment of fear when a cylindrical object was pitched from the hatch was quite literally cast away when a guardsman, keeping a level head, scooped up the grenade and bowled it overarm in the direction Zeke had retreated, where it exploded harmlessly.

 _That's a prize bowler if I ever saw one_ , Dranno remarked. Impressed with the Cadian's performance in combat. Previous animosity aside, they were terrific streetfighters. But again, they were probably used to it, living so close to the Eye of Terror. With Dranno covering the Cadians, they plucked open the top hatch, which had been left ajar, and tipped four or five frags and concussion bombs inside; going off like gongs in a church tower.

"Cheeky buggers," Dranno exclaimed when three crewmen in one-piece overalls crawled out from underneath the tank, having avoided the grenades.

"Kill them!" A Cadian next to Dranno shouted. "In the name of the Emperor, kill them."

"Alright, take it easy mate. Your mob's got this." Dranno laughed, slightly perturbed at the Cadian's zeal. As expected, the three crew were quickly captured and relieved of their sidearms. What Dranno was not expecting though were the three being kicked and prodded against a wall. "That's not right." Dranno stared at the impromptu firing squad when they lined up and shot the Zeke tankies. At such close range the particle beams blew plate-sized hunks of super-heated blood, skin, and bone into the wall behind, boiling parts of the stone; enough for it to melt. Liquified, the grey sludge oozed over the fallen Zekes.

"Not right!" The zealous Cadian scoffed. "Look at you, righteous off-worlder. This is our home. Not yours."

Ignoring the guardsman, Dranno flipped his fixed pair of magazines around, loading his second. "Out the window, lads."

"Shall we bring the heavy bolter?"

"Nah, leave it. We're running light kit."

Slinging his Lecta around his back, Dranno let himself down from the first-floor window, stumbling when he hit the ground. His sudden showing drew the ire of Corporal Vassella, whose fireteams very nearly let loose upon the unfamiliar figure in olive grey.

"Throne, we might have shot you!" Vassella raged, raising a balled fist and shaking it at Dranno.

"You what—?" Dranno smirked, beckoning to his scouts to re-join the vanguard again. "Front and centre, lads."

Obliging the scouts, Vassella's platoon waited just past the tank for the scouts to pass. A few pious guardsmen passed encouraging ' _for the Emperor's_ ', to the scouts, who themselves returned with, ' _the Emperor protects_.'

The shriek of incoming shells forced Dranno and the others to find shelter in a gutter at a rough T-junction. It seemed like the explosions were lifting Dranno bodily into the air. For a second, he lost consciousness. Then he found himself crawling along the gutter, his brain whirling. Greasy black smoke drifted over him, obscuring his vision. The Kriegan gates towered above the black columns. The curtain walls were well within striking distance now.

The staggering Zekes, fast disappearing in the direction of the curtain wall, offered one last token of resistance in the form of a VAK gun, firing along the length of the street, north of Dranno's position. It was not a simple mount and trolley though, but a half-track combination. With the track's arse-end presented to the attackers, the 20-millimetre autocannon, really meant for anti-aircraft work, spat high-explosive shells over Dranno and the Cadian's heads. Unlike the bolter, the VAK's conventional ammunition exploded directly on contact, and was much louder. Completely suppressed, and with no desire to even return fire upon the churning VAK, Dranno froze, his eyes tight shut, ears bleeding to the supersonic crack of the shells, passing over his head at 900 metres per second. If they had wanted to, Zeke could have kept up his rate of fire, locking the street down completely. Concerned perhaps over ammunition, or being outflanked, the half-track trundled away, making a tight left turn around a corner.

With their routes parallel, Dranno had a wild idea of possibly getting ahead of the AA vehicle, cutting it off, and assaulting it. "Come on, lads. We're gonna flank it," he shouted, pulling himself out of the gutter and rushing across the street. From behind, the Cadian platoons, along with the tiny minority of Cannon grunts advanced. Dranno paid no attention to them, intent on hounding the fleeing Zekes. _We keep up momentum, we drive Zeke out of Kraf_ , he thought determinedly. _Avenge old C-for-Cannon along the way._ The other scouts keeping pace with him, Dranno bust through a thin screen of habs, encountering only bodies plucked from life by artillery. These buildings, broad rather than tall, just seemed to end. Stretching the last 300 yards to the curtain wall was a barren plain, with only a few fingers of concrete sticking up like broken teeth in a maw. Turned into an expanse with all the features of a grassy steppe, what had been the very western quarter of the Solarus district had been utterly annihilated. With the board swept clear, and absolutely zero usable cover, Dranno sullenly accepted that there was no way to catch up to the halftrack; the receding rattle and squeak of its wheels he could still hear several blocks away. Bowing to caution, Dranno wormed his way as far forwards as he could, until he was lying behind a two-foot-high corner of stone, exposed on both flanks. Setting his Lecta down, Dranno glassed the gatehouse with a pair of binoculars, imagining the vivid effigies of Chaos decorating the outside, like with the Titan. _Odd_ , he thought. Besides the terrific pock-marks and blast holes the outer armour plating had received, there was little evidence of Zeke's occupation. Working his way up the battered imperial defences, Dranno centred on a flag fluttering out of a narrow vision slit. Unmistakably imperial in origin, the fabric was bloodied and bullet-scarred. But there it hung.

"There it is," Dranno felt a smile form. "One of you lot, go back and tell Mister Corta that we're still holding on to the gates," he whispered loudly. "Iggery."

"Who is Mister Corta?" someone asked.

"Go and tell the lieutenant that we've still got the gatehouse, alright?" Dranno tutted. " _Bloody Cadians,_ " he added inwardly, shaking his head. Now that re-taking the gates without co-ordinated armour and artillery support was no longer a problem, Dranno guessed that Zeke would be intercepted by the Cadians garrisoning the gatehouse and curtain wall.

A soft whistle turned Dranno's head around. Lieutenant Corta was coming up, with Wharton alongside him.

"Alright, Mister Corta?"

"How you getting on, Draino? Nice scout work." Corta grinned, glassing the gatehouse. "I heard about the gates."

"Yeah. Was hoping we'd get a bit of luck kicked our way. We got any comms yet, Wharton?"

"Pfft. Nah, those Marines don't want to know us." Wharton shrugged. "Dunno. I'm probably using the wrong authorisation, or something. I just grabbed this off a FAC."

"Alright. Okay. Sarn't Dranno, you ready to lead off?"

"Right, we're going straight up the middle, sir?"

"Well, there's no other cover for hundreds of yards around. You'll be alright. The Cadians will see you. I'll be along with the company just behind you."

"Whack-ho, sir."

Stuffing his binoculars away, Dranno gave a two-note whistle to the scouts and waved his hand gently forwards. Spread out in a rough line, Dranno moved at a fast trot, keeping hunched over and his finger on his Lecta's trigger, alert for any Zekes springing up from holes in the ground. Ears numb to the rustle of heavy clothing and jangle of rounds inside magazines, Dranno eyed the ground for little metal prongs, scanning both his and other's paths shrewdly. Nothing had been sown in the dead ground, as the lack of explosions and live Cadians told him. _Okay, I think we're good_ , Dranno smiled grimly, the temptation to slip into complacency compelling.

The red-hot sledgehammer blows tipped Dranno's world sideways. Without knowing that he had been hit, and angered that something had gone wrong, Dranno's right leg went numb. His ankle twisted, and he fell over, hitting the ground on his side. Vaguely hearing indignant bellowing from far away, Dranno lifted his head, seeing the faces of two dead scouts lying there. Green light filled the sky as a flare was fired upwards. The belated green star cluster signalling that friendlies were coming in. Too late.

"Was I a good sergeant?" Dranno asked Corta weakly, when the officer rolled Dranno onto his back.

"Yes, Adrian." Corta smiled, the corner of his eyes crinkling. "You are a good sergeant."

"I was home, sir. What the hell happened?"

Adrian Dranno did not hear the answer Simon Corta gave. His clock had stopped where he lay.

* * *

 **Lunar Class Cruiser 'Goliath' D82, Cadia Prime Orbit, 11:49 (Cadian Time)**

Without seeing fit to inform the latecomer of the change in schedule, the conference aboard the acting flagship of Admiral Quarren went ahead, beginning at 11:30 sharp. Unknowingly late, thirty-nine-year-old Commander Jack Cudden entered the conference room, one deck beneath the cruiser's bridge, and stopped when heads turned to look at him.

"And you are?" the grey form of the admiral, seated at the head of the wide table, said coldly.

"My apologies, sir." Cudden clicked his heels. With no time to spare between his disembarking of the Aquila Lander, and arrival at the conference, Cudden had not changed, nor had he removed his gun belt, something that had been oddly overlooked. "I'm Commander Cudden. I'm here on behalf of Captain Dalmut Meynell."

"Be seated."

Taking the last vacant seat, Cudden manoeuvred himself in between two captain's, placing his cover on the table. Hoping the admiral would provide some solution to the stalled lift, preferably in the form of personnel ships and landers. Somewhat to his displeasure, the admiral began by dwelling upon the situation in space, and how the battlefleet fared. It did not help that there were only naval officers present. Cudden regretted not asking for Colonel Venant to accompany him, or even Major General Alexis Rebbeck, though the major general was most likely preoccupied with holding the perimeter. The lord castellan, stubbornly, would not leave Cadia whilst the enemy was unvanquished. This exclusion of Guard officers at conferences would only impede the efforts to rescue the soldiers before Zeke took the planet; surely the great Admiral Quarren understood that. The situation on the planet aside, a stalemate had developed, with the bulk of the Chaos fleet holding orbit on the other side of the planet. Without the ships or ammunition to pursue the many smaller Chaos splinter fleets, which had left the system to pursue other targets, Quarren was reduced to defending three narrow lanes – through the thick fields of wreckage and anti-shipping mines – which constituted the only safe passage off Cadia. These passages, at the current moment, were conspicuously devoid of personnel craft.

 _Ah, now let's hear him_. Cudden gave Quarren his full attention when the admiral finally got around to the evacuation but was disappointed when Quarren did not consult him directly upon the matters planetside. _What the hell has been happening up here?_ _Progress cannot be achieved without full co-operation with the services. Have they all gone batty whilst I've been gone?_

When, forty minutes later, Quarren ended the conference, Cudden still had not been consulted. _Is this because I turned up late?_ He wondered.

"Admiral, sir?" Cudden weaved through the groups of officers, over to where the admiral was conversing with his senior captains and Rear-Admiral Oslam Seger. "Excuse me, Admiral."

"The latecomer. Yes, I have three personnel ships ready to be sent down to Kasr Kraf. Can you berth three ships at a time?"

"No problem, sir. Those ships can berth in a line. It'll have to be away from the docks. All seven have been put out of commission. Can the personnel ships put down on their own gear?"

"They are small enough, Commander." Quarren nodded then turned away.

"Will there be more personnel ships, Admiral?" Cudden persisted. "And what of the destroyers? Icarus and Basilisk—"

"When ships become available, I will send you some, Commander." Quarren glared. Behind him, Seger too was giving Cudden his darkest stare. "For now, you must wait for nightfall. Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon, Admiral."

Seeing nothing else was going to be sorted out, Cudden stepped out of the conference room, where his attention was snatched by a petty officer bearing a scroll of printed text. The PO stopped when he saw Cudden, and stood to one side, bringing himself to attention. Curious at the PO's incursion of the conference room, Cudden waited in the corridor for a moment. It was the sound of clapping that drew him back inside to a scene of polite applaud. Admiral Quarren, holding the unfurled parchment, was on the receiving end of mass-congratulations. Smiling and thanking the other officers, Quarren noticed Cudden, who was nonplussed.

"Well, Commander. The God-Emperor blesses us with his light," he said.

"I'm sorry, sir?" Cudden glanced at the now-jovial gathering, unsure if he was supposed to share their abrupt amiability. "I'm returning to the airbase. Captain Meynell will expect a report."

"And you will give it to him, with a prayer on your lips and a blessing offered to the God-Emperor as well, Commander."

"Yes, sir." Cudden still did not understand. "If I may? I must be off."

"Then be off with you. And let it be known on the ground that relief has arrived."

"Relief. By whom?"

Quarren straightened the paper out and offered it to Cudden in a surprising display of cordiality. His throat drying in suspense, Cudden lifted up one end of the long sheet and began to read the tiny printed letters.


	43. Chapter 42

**Valkyrie 229, 08:19**

With the air from the Slick's directional thrusters gushing over the clamouring crowds below, Hugh Waldo lifted up and away from the masses of personnel. With no cause to hang around after dropping the colonel off, Waldo decided to leave, choosing to risk marauding fighters over being targeted on the ground; either by desperate evacuees, or bombers. Both guardsman and civilian, there was little class distinction between them now, were left stranded on the ground. _I'm sorry,_ he thought, guilty at leaving with an empty troop bay. But what could a single lightly-armed Valkyrie do? For the hundreds of thousands of people, trapped inside a shrinking fingerprint of territory, the only way out was up to the ships waiting in orbit; if any were waiting. But Waldo could not break the upper atmosphere. His ship was simply not built for the depressured environment of vacuum. Realistically, he was just as much a prisoner as all those poor souls on the ground were, that was until his fuel ran out. Then, a flightless bird, Waldo would fall inside the barrel and become lost in the olive grey, khaki, and drab crowds that, to the enemy, were little more than heaving blots in the enemy's crosshairs and bombsights.

Bereft of orders, Waldo adjusted his thrusters and dipped his nose, coming around to a northerly heading, intending to fly back to Bastion 1 and seek orders from the GOC.

"Hey, that colonel looked just about ready to throw the book at you, Irv," Ori Hensen, on the starboard door gun, said.

"Well, you know these green slime types. They jump on anything." Irv Sice, on the port door gun, laughed. "The littlest infractions. Trying to make themselves look important. Aw, she didn't half let the wind out her tits when she saw the collective down there. Arrogant officer bitch."

"That's enough, Irv. Keep your eyes peeled, now," said Waldo. Despite the insubordination, he kept his tone light. The crew's rule was what was said up in the air stayed in the air. Aside from the general prospect of dying to enemy fire, the five were happy that they could leave their problems behind on the ground, and act as their own independent body.

"Arun, do we have a heading?" Waldo asked Arun Ovile, sitting in the co-pilot's compartment behind his own. "Arun, do you read?"

"Feeding it to you, Hugh," Arun's reply came after a second's pause.

With the vector appearing upon Waldo's helmet mounted display, he trimmed the controls accordingly. "Everything alright, Arun?"

"S'all good, Hugh."

"You still in this? I need my navigator wired, Arun."

"Mm-hm."

"We'll see about rotating crews when we put down at GHQ, okay?"

"Okay. Did you get around to posting those letters?"

"Well, your folks are alright, aren't they?" Russ Reath, perched on one of the bucket seats, spoke. "Cypra Mundi's a proper fortress. Biggest in Obscurus. Don't worry about it."

"We won't be here much longer, Arun. We'll all get off together, alright?" Waldo said, reassuringly. "Arun?"

Arun's voice was suddenly sharp and alert in Waldo's ears. "Contact. Two times AA-2s. Bearing zero-three-four. Range seventeen klicks."

The warning beep, coming a third of a second after Arun's declaration, confirmed to Waldo that there were two air-to-air missiles locked onto their signature. "Roger, going NOE," he said, calmly. "Give me information, Co-pilot."

Killing the Slick's speed and altitude, Waldo's eyes roved about for a suitable hiding place, his ears picking up the trill, growing in tempo as the missiles closed in. "Deploy flares."

"Deploy flares," Arun said, with his next breath, adding, "time to impact, seven seconds."

Bright balls of light came bursting out from twin launchers mounted underneath the tail booms; three salvos in all; their paths marked by thin trails of smoke.

"Four seconds."

"Gimme an update please, Arun," Waldo said, his hands performing fast movements upon the controls, braking hard enough to tilt the ship's nose upwards. Then, all forward momentum bled, Waldo reduced his altitude, slipping down inside a gutted eight-storey hab block that was marked only by its thick walls.

"First missile took the bait. Second is still tracking us."

Waldo had his eye on his rear-facing camera, fixed onto the canopy above his head. Focusing upon the sparkling flares, he watched a bright ball of flame appear in the sky. "Yeah, I see it, Arun. Brace, in the back there."

Holding the stick firmly, Waldo waited for Arun's word. The resounding detonation of the missile covered the hovering Slick in grey dust and pelted it with chunks of masonry. With the Slick wobbling under the stone shower, Waldo nudged the throttle, giving enough downward force to gain altitude.

"Damage report, Arun?" he asked, not even having broken a sweat.

"All systems are nominal. We're out of cover though. Suggest we relocate."

"Right. Where did those missiles come from?" Concerned with the whereabouts of the attacking craft, Waldo switched out of VTOL and returned to conventional flight. "Fighters?"

"Yep. Two times, MA Three-Five's. Bearing zero-three-four. Speed, six-hundred knots. They're closing into gun range."

 _Couldn't be bothered with a second pair,_ Waldo thought, taking a glance at his fire control radar. Both signatures were closing fast.

"Four seconds."

 _No hiding from this one_. "Hang on, everyone. We're viffing."

Vectoring his thrusters, Waldo braced for the loss in velocity, feeling invisible forces try and pluck him out of his seat as the Slick 'braked' mid-air. "What are those Voss' doing, Arun?"

"Aah, one's overshot," Arun cried, a little too excitedly.

"Yep. I saw him." Waldo only caught the blur of the Voss passing overhead but felt the incredible buffeting from the jet wash, as if a giant fist had grabbed the ship and was shaking it earnestly. "Where's his wingman?"

"Uh, he broke left. He's weaving. He'll be back up on our port quarter."

With a few seconds' solace, Waldo drew the reticule of his Scara BL Multilaser over the fast-shrinking speck of the Voss. Even at a distance of 1000 yards, the BL's lethality was the same as if it had been fired from 100 yards; that is, absolute. Whirring numbers upon a secondary screen and a vibration in his control yoke were ignored in favour of watching the Voss, thinking it was safe from harm, roll violently to one side after taking hits. The previous elation Waldo had experienced when tackling the pair of Cateran bombers came back, thrilling him. _Why didn't I fly interceptors?_ He wondered. Wounded in the hide quarters, the Voss, realising its prey packed teeth, banked and bolted eastwards, leaving a stream of grey smoke in its wake.

"Yep, he's bugging out," Arun said.

"Where's the—?" Waldo, catching a grey smudge in the corner of his eye, threw the Slick into a roll. Before he could point the nose at the incoming Voss, the Slick's armour plating rang as hammers struck it, jarring the cockpit, the repeating clangs driving needles into Waldo's ears. She announced in a sanguine manner that the aircraft was taking fire, and that it would be wise to revise the present speed and heading.

"Russ. You alright back there?" Waldo grated, turning into the Voss's flightpath, trying to minimise the time the Slick was exposed to the automatic cannon fire. "Answer me!"

"Bloody pincushion," Waldo heard Russ Reath say before the intercom faded.

"Bloody what?" Waldo doggedly returned fire on the Voss, managing only a few cycles before the enemy fighter rocketed past. "Arun, what's going on back there?"

"Don't know. The intercom went dead."

"Keep me posted on the fighter. I'll find us somewhere to set down."

"Hugh. That fighter's taking a wide angle. He'll be coming up on our rear. Wait, we've got another missile in the air too."

 _Shit_. Waldo fought to keep an even tone. "Okay, give me its position, speed, and heading."

"No-no. It's not on us. I've got another bird on radar. IFF reads friendly. They fired an HK."

 _Well, thank the Emperor for that._ Of course, there had been no warning of active lock-on. "Understood," Waldo replied, unclenching. "Lads? Talk to me."

"…Aw, we're a bit banged up, back here, Hugh," Russ Reath said, over the scratchy intercom.

"Irv and Ori alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, we're all good, Hugh," Irv said shakily. "I dunno. That felt like exploding shit to me."

"Twenty-mil high-ex, that's affirmative," Russ said. "We got perforations all over the bulkheads. Seals around the ramp are breached. Doesn't look like we're pressurising any time soon. Hydraulics might be shot to shit too. Can't tell unless we get the girl into the workshop."

"Roger that, Chief. Ori, you're quiet."

"He's fine. He's just sitting down, Hugh. Some twenty-mil wrecked his door gun's mount. I've checked both over. How are we flying?"

"Doesn't feel any different from before. No wobble in the controls. She's quiet. Arun, how we doing?"

"Damage equates to breaches along the hull. Our portside number two vector thruster took fire. Might need to replace that. No temperature spikes. No ruptured fuel lines. I think we're good, Hugh."

"Yeah. Yeah, we're good." Waldo looked over at the eastern horizon, seeing the hunter-killer missile, likely a Mark 16, turn its target into very small, very hot fragments of metal.

"Crow Five-Seven, this is Crow Five-Three. You owe us a slab, over." Warrant Officer Andrew Seroy's spoke, making Waldo snort in amusement.

"What did he say?" said Arun.

"We owe them a slap."

"Did he say where?" Irv chortled.

Seroy's Slick, packing air-to-air Mark 16s underneath each wing, neatly folded itself into formation alongside Waldo. Seroy gave Waldo a thumbs-up and a wave, which Waldo gratefully returned.

"Have we heard from Crow Leader, at all, Three?"

"Not since we returned to Kraf with the lord castellan."

"Any idea who's in command of the squadron now? Comms have been a bit spotty."

"Not at this present time, no."

"Okay… we'll tag along with you for now, Three. We've got an empty bay, here."

"Roger. Set heading, zero-five-six. Height, angels two."

"Vector zero-five-six. Angels two. Got it."

Wingtip-to-wingtip, both Valkyries banked gently eastwards and disappeared into the clouds.

* * *

 **The catacombs**

Falling down the narrow shaft after James's thin form, Izuru briefly registered a shimmer of water before slapping headfirst into a pool. Breaking the surface immediately after James, Izuru's forehead connected with something rock-hard, the unexpectedly sharp pain making her senses swim. Recovering after a moment's daze, Izuru massaged her throbbing forehead and looked around through squinted eyes. It took her another moment to work out that the pool she and James had fallen into was only five feet deep, leading her to stand upright. Spitting out water, Izuru wiped her face down and cast about for James. The others had all clambered out of the pool and were sitting near the edge, looking cold and dejected. Stirring a panic within her, Izuru could not see James among the eleven humans; where there should have been twelve.

 _Where are you?_ Izuru caught Cyrano's eye and raised her hands in a shrug, remembering with a pang of bitterness that Keladi had caught on to it. _No, stay there_ , Izuru gestured when Cyrano made to lower himself back in. Traversing the dark water, Izuru found James's motionless body and hauled it up to the surface.

"Cyrano. Take James." She said, lifting James up into Cyrano's arms.

"What happened to him?" the female Cadian asked. Izuru did not know her name. Nor did she particularly care who any of the Cadians were. All of them in their identical khaki uniforms looked the same, and with most having lost their helmets, their shaved heads further marked their bland uniformity.

"Had a crack on the head," Cyrano guessed, laying James out on his back and unfastening his belt kit, spreading the two halves outwards. Searching for a pulse, Cyrano put his ear to James's mouth. "Yes. He's breathing."

"Thank the Mother," Izuru muttered, sitting herself down next to James and sighing in relief. Bracing her elbow on her knee, she rested her chin in her hand and gazed down at him.

"He will be alright, Izuru," Cyrano said, slipping the taught webbing straps from the young human's shoulders.

"Of course." Izuru bent over James and examined the centre of his forehead. Where his brow had furrowed, white lines had appeared through the dark camouflage cream. It became apparent to her that they had made an unintended connection whilst falling. The brief blackout having come from their heads bashing into one another's. _I hope you will accept my humblest apology, James,_ thought Izuru. He was lucky that it had been the brow her head had hit. It was the hardest part of the human skull and was only centimetres from the curving bridge between the brow and the nose which was the softest part of the skull and would have very likely broken upon contact. A nightmarish thought of James's nasal bone being driven up into his skull and inside his brain because of her, worked Izuru's insides up into a frenzy. Resting a hand upon her vest, above where her heart was, Izuru felt its heightened tempo; beating far faster than it normally did.

"Leave speculation behind. It happened because it was the will of the Emperor." Cyrano said gently, noticing Izuru's anxiety. "What could have happened, didn't."

Stiffening at the mention of the false deity, Izuru said, "no, I do not believe it. Your god is nothing to me."

Respectfully nodding, Cyrano touched James's shoulder. "…Yes."

Now that James was by her side and the likelihood of a watery grave was fast diminishing, Izuru broadened her perspective, curious at where Shesmet had led them. Unbeknownst to the humans – their eyes were less attuned to the dark – they were inside a kilometre-high chamber. Circular, and a good hundred feet wide, the place was vast. _Blessed Asuryan. This is no chamber_ , Izuru realised when she saw the gigantic tube standing upright in the centre. _It is a silo_.

An ancient missile or possibly a rocket, the gargantuan thing stretched far up into the deep shadows, bringing on a peculiar fear within Izuru's breast. Stone grey, and smooth all over. It struck her as something that might have been used as a last-resort; when all other options had been exhausted. _A chemical weapon. Or even an atomic warhead perhaps?_ Izuru pondered. The body was connected to the walls by perilously thin gantries, criss-crossing each other at dizzying heights. Pipelines ran vertical around the silo's circumference, snaking over and under the ringed bulkheads. At the giant's feet were chunky cradles, keeping the tube upright, and beneath it a circular pit that the fire from the thrusters would be sucked into. Laid out around the missile were pieces of starships; a graveyard of ancient vessels, all coated in dust, with only distant echoes to keep them company.

Shivering in her soaking clothes, Izuru rubbed her shaking arms. Opposite her, Cyrano was wringing the water out of his cavalry cover, having somehow retained it when nearly everyone had ditched their own headwear. Of course, the fear of being dragged under by the weight of rifle and ammunition had compelled the humans to lose body armour, belt kit, and their personal weapons. Each placed survival over retaining their arms, something Izuru begrudgingly agreed with. She herself had lost her peaked soft cover and Volg carbine but had kept her assault vest on her person. With the cap absent, a new worry now began to gnaw at her. Anticipating at some point that she would be outed as xenos – the humans were not complete fools, despite what she had been taught – Izuru unlatched the metal stud that held her Moses snugly in its crossdraw holster; mindful of the Cadian's reaction.

"Spread warmth to his being," Cyrano murmured, unbuttoning James's LP jacket. "He will catch cold."

"Away. Attend to the others."

Cyrano smiled and flipped his fur hat over in his hands, tucking it under his arm. "Look to yourself, too. Don't neglect your own body."

In full control of her body, Izuru dismissed the notion that she would see to herself first. The barbaric selfishness that had once dominated her personality harked back to her time serving under Saarania, and the dark deeds she had committed to save her children.

 _Come back to me, dear sons of mine. Let me see your beautiful faces again._

Mind beginning to wander, Izuru felt her fingertips brush James's cheek. _Aah, I digress_. _Apologies_. Drawing James's arms out of the jacket's sleeves, Izuru laid him back down and spread the wet cotton out on the floor. _Where are you, Shesmet? Kora? Whichever way you spin your tale of deceit, it will not cloud my eyes._

Unzipping her assault vest, Izuru set it and her black jacket aside, leaving her arms bare. A slow, bristling anger was ticking over inside her, the thought of the human-thing laying hands upon James, the catalyst of her wrath. _Touch him again and you will find an adversary in me._

 _Click._

Reflexively placing the rough wooden grips of the Moses in her hand, Izuru knelt protectively over James, pressing down upon the thin thumb safety. A glance over at the other humans affirmed that they too had heard the metallic note. Those with sidearms: Lorne, Cyrano, and the female Cadian, were aiming away into the dark, blinking in the hope that it would improve their night-vision.

 _Click_.

"Shesmet?" Cyrano called.

"Hush." Izuru raised her off hand in warning. _Why the sudden need for secrecy?_ _What have you led us into, Thing?_

 _Click-click_.

"By the Golden Throne," a Cadian whispered, grasping at a friend's shoulder.

"Heresy."

Izuru turned her head, seeing the female Cadian now aiming her laspistol at her.

"Heretics and a xenos," she said, her hands holding her sidearm rock-steady. "What devious trap have you led us into, Xenos?"

 _Click-click-click_.

Appearing coldly aloof, and without the faintest trace of concern at the weapon aimed at her head, Izuru ignored the human woman. _She would not have the balls to do it, what with enemies so closeby._ Izuru's focus was entirely upon the mechanical noises and protecting her companion. Like a ticking clock, the notes spoke in quick succession, only they were slowly accelerating, beating faster and faster.

"Answer me, Xenos!" the Cadian growled. "Suffer not the xenos—"

"Shut-up." Cyrano, fed up with the woman, issued her a truly malicious glare. _Shut up or I will shut you up._

The verbal exchanges were attracting more and more of the unseen entities. Clacking and whirring in unison, the first shadow rose up from behind a large engine husk, standing still and silent; watching the group from its perch.

"Hold." Izuru safetied and placed her Moses on the floor, aware that they were under observation from more than just a single pair of eyes.

"Do as she says," Cyrano said, his eyes never leaving the Cadian. "Safeties on. Place your weapons on the floor. _Everyone_."

Eyes flitting about in bewilderment, Lorne complied. Reluctantly complying with Izuru's order, the Cadian put her laspistol down, hate-filled eyes sending unveiled threats at the xenos, something Izuru ignored; so used to it now that it was no longer worth any remark. Concerning her then were the scrapings of steel-shod heels upon the floor. Her teeth clamped together, Izuru rested a hand upon James's chest, and gathered herself for confrontation.

Blinded when spotlights set high in the walls shed light upon the floor, Izuru peered through cracks in her fingers, face dawning in recognition.

 _Tech-Guard_.

Faced with tides of soldiers of the Adeptus Mechanicus, standing shoulder-to-shoulder at ground level, or looking down on their captives from walkways, Izuru did the unthinkable. She offered her surrender. Never having been forced to give herself up before, she raised her hands, smarting at her wounded pride. _What is this? Rangers do not surrender._ The arrogant Eldar that took up one half of her consciousness bawled.

 _I am no Ranger_ , the calm and rational veteran replied. _I gave up that title when I took up arms alongside the humans. I think I can live with the shame of it._

Cutting off the inward dispute, Izuru remained frozen, her hands up. Waiting for the Skitarii to make their move. From the corner of her eye, the humans were in similar states of surrender. All, even the Cadians, were quite willing to capitulate when confronted with the silent ranks of AdMech warriors, clad in crimson robes and pointed red hoods that covered the armour plate they wore as their skin. Watching the Skitarii warily, Izuru gathered James into her arms and set him down behind her. The longarms they bore, Galvanic rifles, were massive in the being's gauntleted hands. Underneath each warrior's hood blazed a pair of fluorescent blue orbs, cold and lacking in any civility. From their midst stepped a higher-ranking Skitarius – an Alpha – broader-chested and taller than its cohorts. Its robes were decorated with white trim. It held a bulky pistol in one hand and a vicious-looking maul in the other. Its stature unmatched, the Alpha trod carefully towards Izuru, slowly twirling the maul which crackled with electricity. On her knees, Izuru stared into the depths of the Alpha's eyes, willing it do to something, if it was only to issue her a killing blow.

"Stand down."

The words came not from the Alpha but from further back. A voice Izuru loathed.

"He will see you." Shesmet, half-smiling at the sight of Izuru on her knees, swept through the parting ranks of Skitarii. Retracting its power maul, the Alpha bowed to Shesmet and backed away, rejoining its cohorts.

"Find your feet and follow."

It was Cyrano who made the first move, breaking the general state of paralysis that had the humans dead to rights.

"Not you." Shesmet's tone was quietly condescending. She did not even look at him.

Paying James a glance, Izuru's expression hardened when her eyes met Shesmet's. "No one is harmed."

"If that is what you wish then accompany me."

Signalling Cyrano to stay put, over his silent objections, Izuru followed Shesmet in the direction of the rocket, trusting him to keep the others safe whilst she was gone. It rankled her to abandon them with the Skitarii. Such independent constructs she had never trusted, viewing humanity's obsession with the amalgamation of flesh and steel outright barbarous and sickening. But if there were any organic pieces within the Skitarii bodies, they were well-hidden.

Inviting Izuru to ascend a flight of wide stairs, circling the body of the rocket, Shesmet floated upwards lazily, the expression of mild smugness still in place, irritating Izuru. After many circuits, Izuru could barely make out the specks of the humans through the pillars, far below. Certain now that they were alone, she stopped mid-step, waiting for Shesmet to notice.

"Do we understand one another?" Izuru said evenly. "Do you know your position?"

Five steps above, Shesmet flicked her cape over one shoulder. "Concerning whom?"

"Those I value as companions."

A faint frown replacing her grin, Shesmet said, "yet, I wonder how many you truly care about. The bearded one, perhaps. But there is really only one, isn't there?"

"Speak no names, Thing. I would break bread with you, as the humans say. You can manoeuvre and manipulate them with impunity. But you cannot pull the wool over my eyes. We Eldar are superior in every way to the lesser species. And we are not easily deceived."

"Ah, but you are not Eldar." Shesmet's lip curled. "Do you know what you are, really?"

"And you are no human. Dark sorcery saw to that."

Shesmet spread her arms. "Look at us. Neither one nor the other. Both occupying the void between species. I have my position. Let me ask you of yours, Half-caste. What use do the Eldar have for a bastard-spawn?"

 _Tomorrow, you may awaken with your innards around you._

Maddened, Izuru felt a muscle twitch in her jaw. Fighting back against the inordinate desire to explode, she clasped her hands behind her back and closed the gap between her and Shesmet.

"Let us break bread." Shesmet smiled, her lips drawing back from her teeth. "Though we need not be comfortable bedfellows."

Ignoring Shesmet's barbed jabs, Izuru said, "let us not keep your master waiting. He would not want it known that you delayed his guest, would he?"

"Oh, He is not my master. I serve a higher power. But, you will not see him. I take you to stand before an Archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus."

"His name?" Izuru asked, stepping up past Shesmet and continuing with her at her shoulder.

"Shall be spoken by him alone. Heed my advice now, Half-caste. The Archmagos despises ignorance and stupidity. He is quick to anger also. Answer his questions in brief and without deviation, lest you incur his wrath. Then, I will not help you."

 _Yes, I am sure you would very much like to look upon my broken body._

"So, what use does an Archmagos of the Adeptus Mechanicus have for a bastard-spawn?"

A short pause then the ghost of a smile passed Izuru's lips. Shesmet's hesitation told Izuru that she had not been expecting her to speak the derogatory title Shesmet had bestowed upon her. It was a victory, however insignificant, over the snobbish woman.

 _No, I think I shall embrace it. Wear it as I would fur in the winter,_ Izuru thought, satisfied.

"I would take a gentler tone, Half-caste. For do you not remember that without my intervention you, the redhaired xenos, and your human toy would have all perished by now? No, wait. I tell a lie, your xenos protégé _is_ dead. Murdered through treachery that you were helpless to prevent. How does it feel to be helpless?"

The remarks bit Izuru deeply. It did not seem possible that Shesmet had saved her life at some point in the past. Surely, she would have remembered it. But, anyway, it was irrelevant.

"Justice for Keladi will be delivered. You know who the real enemy is. Cast aside petty barbs and do away with snide comments. We are allies of convenience and we have a mutual enemy. Logic dictates we work together to see the threat prosecuted. As you say; we need not be comfortable bedfellows."

"No. You have yours. Enjoyable, the touch of youthful flesh?"

Shesmet's irksome grin brought on the muscle spasm in Izuru's jaw.

"And you have him bending over backwards for you?"

"I would take a more respectful tone, Shesmet. Humans are no little people. Nor are they easily frightened by theatrics. Their will to overcome all odds is only outweighed by their kinship and camaraderie with their fellow man."

Shesmet snorted. "You have seen this?"

"With my very eyes. Discount this not, Shesmet, for you are no warrior. There have never been trenches, mud fields, firebase's, or bastions in your memory as there have in mine. You can never, will never understand the bonds forged in battle. It is something warriors share, and warriors alone. I beg thee now. Do not intrude on my personal affairs. You will find you are not welcome."

All smugness in her eyes now absent, Shesmet spoke quietly. "You will find no glowing outcome in this endeavour. Many lives will be lost. Will it be worth it?"

"The outcome justifies the means."

"And from within, the Eldar rears its head."

"It was you who said that we share a common foe, was it not? Did the Inquisitor hurt you as much as he hurt me? Let me ask you if the outcome justifies the means."

They had reached the top of the silo and had left the spotlights far below. Finally petering out, the stairs connected with a walkway that ran straight ahead to a doorway bearing the crest of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

"Pray, hold your tongue. We approach the inner sanctum," said Shesmet.

"No deception?" Izuru said, cautiously falling back a pace.

"Nothing but honesty hereon." Shesmet extended a slender arm, inviting Izuru to walk before her. "Come forth, and all your questions will be answered."

No dry rush of air swept from between the two halves of the door as they parted silently, rather scented oils, mild and soothing, made the hairs in Izuru's nostrils bristle; unused as they were to the smell. As dark as the silo she had left behind her, the chamber was lit by wide cylinders set in stepped tiers around a square space in the middle. Each cylinder glowed a ghostly blue, similar to the eyes of the Skitarii. Each was human-sized and housed a partially grown being connected to wires and tubes. And there were hundreds of them.

 _Growing artificial beings. For what purpose?_ Chilly _,_ Izuru rubbed her bare arms. Having left her jacket and vest behind, she wore only her t-shirt which was plastered to her damp skin. Aware of the sorry state she looked, Izuru nevertheless carried herself proudly, keeping her head up and her hands gripped in the small of her back as she descended the wide steps. With Shesmet keeping her silence, Izuru could only guess to what form the Archmagos would take, never having seen one before.

The steps ended in a wide area taken up by junk scattered around on tables or held inside micro-containers that hummed with energy. This junk, after Izuru had dismissed it as nothing more than useless parts, was, in reality, huge quantities of prototypes. Pieces of armour, weaponry, and all manner of equipment, all alien to Izuru, left lying about out like wasted food. _An inventor?_

With the prototypes were ancient relics of civilisations long forgotten. A wooden box with a crank attached and a brass tube mounted upon the body, the opening splayed outwards like a flower. Portraits, faded beyond recognition, were propped against walls or left lying flat upon tables. A deflated sack with five tubes sticking out of it sat on its own looking forlorn. A small garden, really only a single row of flowers, were being tended by machines. Too menial a task it was for humans. The exotic species at the end of the row caught Izuru's eye. White, with eight thin petals sprouting outwards in a star shape, the flower was known as Aletheia. It grew only upon the summit of Cair Rhazien, Ulthwé's tallest peak, set in the deepest reaches of the Laughing Forest, far from any living creature. Procuring one was not part of Ranger Initiation. But to have completed the journey, alone, and without outside assistance spoke of the finder's resolve and marked him or her as a true Ranger, worthy of the highest respect. _The mark of a true warrior_ , Izuru thought, wondering how the sacred flower had found its way into the hands of the Adeptus Mechanicus. _Noble white_.

The strange, near-kleptomania levels of oddities kept hidden away were promptly forgotten when, through a distorted tank holding individual pieces of blue power armour, Izuru caught a glimpse of something massive. Staring, Izuru watched, her mouth falling open, as the heaving mass moved.

"I would refrain from staring," Shesmet whispered, smiling in amusement at Izuru's confusion. "Come."

An array of eight datascreens, hanging from spindly arms latched to the high ceiling, were scrolling through blurry columns of data, too fast for the eye to discern. Standing before them, all twenty feet of segmented metal and torn red robes, was the Archmagos.

 _What in the name of the Mother is that?_ Izuru looked at Shesmet, convening her sheer disbelief wordlessly.

Shesmet merely smiled and shook her glimmering cape. _Patience_.

And patience it took. For if the Archmagos was aware that he had an audience, he was not showing it. Rather, his focus was entirely upon the eight datascreens and the channel of knowledge each was reeling off. Every so often, a claw on the end of a coiled limb would slink out from beneath the folds of his robes and tap at one of the many keyboards. Servo skulls attached to the central segment of the Archmagos's body danced around, their beady eyes glowing green. But of the Archmagos himself, so intent on knowledge-gathering, there was not a stir.

"Only speak unless spoken to. I shall return presently," Shesmet said, taking her leave.

Unnerved at being left alone with the mysterious Archmagos, to say the least, Izuru took in her surroundings, curious at the tank-grown humans. _Just what experiments is this Archmagos conducting so far from view?_

* * *

The moment I broke the water's surface, a nasty crack across my brow brought on blackness. It was only a second – less even – before I came to, lying on my back and away from the water. The face of Cyrano, not the face I had been hoping for, hovered above me.

"Bloody hell, mate. Thought we was goners," I said sleepily.

"Mmm. Took a nasty crack on your head, there." Cyrano's grinned.

"Aw, don't worry 'bout it. Only out for a second." Trying to sit up, I saw black spots crawling around and felt awash with dizziness. "Aah. How did I get…?"

"No-no. Stay on your back, for now." Cyrano caught and lowered me back down. "More than a moment, I am afraid."

Passing a hand over my face, I muttered, "how long?"

"Maybe… forty, forty-five minutes."

Swearing, I felt around where I lay, aware of the lack of weight on my shoulders and around my waist. "We all okay?"

"Yeah, we all got through the passage. Just, uh…" Cyrano shifted uncomfortably. "We have company."

"…What?" Squinting, I noticed the gathering of Tech-Guard, standing off a little way. "Aw, bloody Clankers."

"Yeah, _ssh_ , alright, James."

Blinking, one eyes squeezed shut, I looked over at the others. "Lorne?"

"Oh, shit. James." Lorne, his damp beret worn wonkily, got to his feet, pulling Borens along with him. Both Highlander's leather boots squelched loudly on the floor and their wool uniforms left dripping trails behind them.

"Everyone okay?" I asked.

"Thirteen limp dicks, present and correct," Lorne said, squatting next to Cyrano. "Thirteen, twelve?"

"Twelve, mate," Borens pointed out. "Don't forget the lumpy-jumper."

"Eleven." Cyrano scowled.

"Eh?" I started in alarm. Izuru had vanished. "Where's Izuru?"

"Uhh." Lorne shrugged. Borens looked away.

"Well, come on, pal. You can do fucking better than that." I dug my fingers into the black jacket and assault vest Izuru had worn. "Bloody well upped and scarpered, did she? What's all this stuff left here, then?"

"Okay, calm down, James. Calm down." Cyrano planted a firm hand upon my shoulder, throwing a worried look at the silent Skitarii. "Shesmet left with her about half an hour ago."

"What, you let her go off on her own with her?"

"Well, we didn't really have a choice. We're prisoners here, I fear," Cyrano said. "Those Tech-Guard haven't done anything, really. I guess we are supposed to stay put, for now."

"Yeah, them Cadians 'aven't 'alf been giving us trouble," Lorne said.

"Why?" I noticed the half dozen Cadians, all without their headgear, were sitting apart from the six of us. The sergeant, shaven-headed like the rest of them, caught my eye and looked away.

"They know about Izuru, James," Cyrano said. "Would've happened at some point, anyway."

"Right. I'll talk to 'em."

"Careful." Cyrano helped me to my feet. "Alright there?"

"Yeah."

The Cadian sergeant would not even meet my eye when I went over to her. "Sarn't? Sorry, Sarn't. Never asked you your name."

"Do you think you deserve my name, collaborator?"

"Prob'ly not, no," I said, scratching my wet hair. "Well, we're in the same boat now. All of us. That's my lot over there, and your lot here."

"Tell me, why." The Cadian turned cold eyes on me. "How does a xenos find her way into the company of imperial guardsmen? You swore oaths to eradicate the threat of the heretic and the xenos. Do you not remember?"

The oath-swearing I did not recall. Though its significance now meant little to me. "She's a mercenary. She's working for me. She's taking orders from me. No-one else."

"Rather an unusual arrangement, isn't it?"

"Honestly, and I've seen this firsthand, so I have. She's the best marksman and the best scout I've ever met. A real killer."

"Paid?"

"Uh?"

"Do you pay her for her services?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." I lied. "Had her on hand since we left our firebase; Rakkassan. Got great big brass bloody balls, she has. Bigger than a lot of us lads."

"We know where she keeps 'em, too," Olen Azar said offhandedly, earning him a glare from Gale.

"Well, I guess I don't have to like it. Sanna Senf," the Cadian said. She did not offer her hand.

"James Larn. So, are you lot infantry?"

"We're service troops. ILC," Sanna said. "423rd Service Company. We're attached to 2nd Guards Brigade."

The other five were Gunnel, Arken, Ramber, Mrenk, and Kasabo. It was difficult to tell the men apart due to their severe haircuts that left not a single hair upon their respective heads. Sanna too, at least at a glance, blended in well with the men for the most part. Cadians were a hardy people. Purple-eyed, strong-featured, and with little distinguishing between genders. The strain at living so close to a galactic hotzone had ground down any physical attractiveness the Cadians might have once possessed, leaving behind plain, wiry recruits, which all of them technically had to be growing up. Sanna herself was nothing to look at, presumably being put through the mill along with all the other young men and women and conditioned far enough to have the individuality ground out of her; leaving near-fanatically devoted soldiers of the Emperor, which I was fast growing sick of encountering.

"Okay, Senf. Just stay put for now. Shesmet will be back. And we'll be moving on."

Rounding on Azar, I said, "she can and will kick your arse into the next millennium. So, show some respect."

Azar stared up at me morosely. "I can't. Not xenos."

"As the sarn't of logistics said, Azar. You don't have to like it. Just understand that compromises need to be made to survive." Gale, behind Azar, gave me a knowing look and a wink.

Needing to say nothing else, I returned to Cyrano. Feeling my sore body, I rubbed my right shoulder where the bandage had loosened and scratched at the red line across my cheek the skimming brass had left. A prick of pain in my temple drove my mood further down the drain.

"A tighter knot, perhaps?" Cyrano suggested, laughing quietly at my perplexion. "Come on, young James. Off with your clobber."

Grunting, I worked my jacket off, dumping it and my t-shirt across Izuru's things.

"Right now," Cyrano said as his fingers unwound the sodden medical gauze. "She is the person I am least concerned for. Do not worry, James."

"I'm n—I'm not. We might have problems with those Cadians in future. So watch 'em good, okay?"

"Yeah. We're at equal numbers, James. I don't think Sergeant Senf will try anything. Where else does it hurt?"

"Erm, forehead. Across the cheek. Legs feel stiff."

"Ah."

"What? That's normal, isn't it?" I pushed Cyrano away before he could answer. "Go check on the others. I'll square myself away."

Face burning, I tied off the ends of the bandage and rolled my shoulders gently, shooing away the self-consciousness. _None of anyone's business at all._ And another thing that was no-one else's business, were the full bowels I had had to contend with since the bastion. Having soiled myself before, I could describe the shortcomings of such an occurrence but would find myself fast running out of breath. I was undoubtedly the first person to ever take a shit in an AdMech facility, right under the noses of the Skitarii too. And there was no Izuru to interrupt me, as she had done twice before.

Content to conduct my business – with a waist-high piece of broken fuselage concealing the extent and a handful of foam insulation for cleaning – I was interrupted, not by Izuru, but by Shesmet, her arrival souring my spirits. At Cyrano's behest, Shesmet withheld approaching, a disgusted look on her face.

"If you are quite finished," she said, tutting at me once I was decent. "I would have you accompany me."

"Just me?" I raised my eyebrows, wiping my hands upon my trousers. "You mean up there?"

"Just you. We shall announce ourselves to him in pairs. Any more and we risk incurring his wrath. He does not like crowds."

"Well, come on then, Cyrano—"

"Just you." Shesmet's tone was firm and there was a finality to it.

"You go, James. We'll be alright down here." Smiling encouragingly, Cyrano drew my soggy infantry beret from where it was tucked in one of the inside pockets on my jacket and handed both items to me.

"Ta, mate." Aware of Shesmet watching me, I quickly dressed. On reaching down to pick up my belt kit, Shesmet spoke sharply.

"No weapons."

With my hand resting upon the bulk of the Volg, sitting in its canvas holster, I let go of the material and shoved the webbing over to Cyrano. "Can you check my field glasses out, pal? Not s'posed to get 'em wet."

"Will do, James."

"Be back soon."

Awaiting the private chat that I knew Shesmet wanted, I clambered up the stairs nonchalantly, my hands thrust deep into my trouser pockets, never mind the wetness inside them. It was a good hundred feet up from the floor of the chamber, which I had gathered was some sort of missile silo, when Shesmet slipped past my shoulder and said, "you know I will not grant her the killing blow."

"Nah, I don't reckon you will, no," I replied, watching the shining toecaps of my boots mount step after step of rough iron. "Okay, before you say it. We've come too far to turn back."

"Not what I was intending to say…"

"Me neither."

"Well, what were you intending to say?" Shesmet, intrigued, eyed me.

"Where's Titus?"

"James, I don't know—"

"Number ten, Shesmet," I cut in. "'Bout the only people who can call me by my first name, I can count on both my hands. You're not one of 'em. Sorry, but that's just how it is."

"Very well, Human." Shesmet bristled. "Is that what she called you before you and her—"

"S'none of your business. None of it. Don't preach 'ow to be a good xenos-hating, Emperor-loving citizen to me. I'm not the one who torches hospitals, or zips civvies. That's on you, Kora. I don't care if it was in your past life. You can't hide behind Shesmet. I know your face. Now, I'm gonna ask you, where's Titus?"

"I… I do not know." Shesmet, hot under the collar now, sought a higher perch, enough for her to tower over me in the vague hope she might retain the moral high ground through intimidation alone. "With his father gone—"

"So you _do_ remember?" Sneering, I locked eyes with the woman.

"No more relevant than what I once was…" Shesmet flew upwards, disappearing around the corner.

"It is to me!" I snarled, taking double-strides up the stairs. Worn out from the desperate swim, I struggled to mount the steps, two at a time, losing my footing and falling against the hard ruts. "Shesmet!"

Unexpectedly, Shesmet was waiting at the end of a covered gantry that led away from the curving nose of the missile, out of the silo altogether. _AdMech_. I recognised the half-organic, half-mechanical skull carved into a wide door Shesmet guarded.

"He asks, you answer," she said solemnly. "And forget not that I saved all your lives."

Facing straight ahead, as if standing on parade, I waited for the doors to part. Sticking my chin out, I said, "take me to her."

The stone-faced mask of a veteran I wore obscured my awe at the fields of birthing tanks ringing the centre of the room. _A cloning facility. But growing what, exactly?_ The semi-transparent liquid that filled each tank blurred the occupant so much that I could see nothing more than a vaguely-bipedal shape. Human, but larger. _Marines. Does the AdMech grow Marines?_

Swallowing in the dry air, I left the last step behind and found myself in a workshop of sorts. Strewn across tables, hanging from wires, or sitting in display tanks were what appeared relics of the past, prototype weapons and bits of armour and equipment. Trinkets, baubles, ancient memorabilia; everything messily arranged as if a toddler had been given free rein to do as it pleased.

At Shesmet's direction, I rounded a transparent case, laid on its side, containing Marine power armour. Izuru, standing with her back to me in the foreground, caught my attention, so much that I didn't immediately notice the thing Izuru was transfixed by.

Patting Izuru's shoulder, I smiled up at her. "You alright there?"

Giving me a blank look, Izuru inclined her head at a strange mountain of robes, piled in front of an arrangement of screens linked to a large cogitator. Unsure of what we were looking at, I swore under my breath when thin appendages appeared from underneath the robes. Imagining an arachnid's legs, but with a strange segmented body, the thing heaved itself up to an impossible height. It had to be nearly twenty feet tall.

" _What in the name of the Golden Throne is that?_ "

Near-white with fear, I wished Izuru would turn and bolt, so I could do the same. But as long as she stayed, I had to as well. So why was she?

Taking no notice of us, the thing pottered from screen to screen, pausing to hunch over a protruding keyboard and employ one of its many flailing limbs to drum away on the runes. Catching a glimpse underneath its drawn hood, I saw a distinctly human face with a mask attached to where its mouth should be, and what looked like a monocle covering its right eye. The thing's nose was a pallid green-grey, as if its flesh had long since decayed. It struck me as something out of a child's nightmare.

Gingerly, I called out to the AdMech thing. "Hello?"

" _Shush_." Izuru hissed.

In a startling bout of exertion, the thing spun around on its many legs, a long staff held in its hand. The staff, as it turned out, was more a halberd. Extending with a loud _clack_ , the combination of spear and battleaxe was readied in the thing's mechanical gauntlets.

"Izuru. Run," I said timidly, right as the thing charged.

"Archmagos!" Shesmet cried.

"You start swinging that axe, it better be at me," I shouted, trying to push Izuru away.

Curbing his headlong rush, the Archmagos raised his halberd into a guard. "Where is the Veilwalker. Why are there two?"

The voice that came from a speaker attached to his left shoulder, was that of an old man's, but scrambled so far that it was only faintly recognisably human. _Easy there, mate_. Wincing – the Archmagos was roughly three times my height, I stepped back a pace, feeling tiny in his shadow.

"Archmagos, let me introduce—"

"Yes, it is all very well for some. Barge in as you please. Never leaving me with a moment's peace." The Archmagos rammed the butt of his halberd against the floor, making me jump. "Impulsive!"

Then, the aggressive spurt leaving his system, the Archmagos retracted his halberd and stomped back to his cogitator to wire himself back up. Gobsmacked, I looked to Shesmet for an explanation.

"Apologies. Introductions will wait then," she said in a low voice. "He is Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl of the Adeptus Mechanicus. This is his facility."

"Is he AdMech brass?" I asked hesitantly, watchful for any signs of aggro.

"Brass?"

"Where does he fall in the hierarchy?" Izuru, likewise apprehensive, said.

"There are only ten known Magi Dominus in the galaxy. The AdMech themselves number in the billions. Archmagos Cawl is special."

"Why?"

"Come." Shesmet flew back into the maze of relics, beckoning at us to follow. "I have sought his counsel many times these past weeks, slowly gaining his trust."

"So you say," said Izuru, dubious at Shesmet's claims.

"Not three days ago, the Archmagos revealed to me his plan for saving Cadia."

"Saving Cadia?" I snorted. "Bit late for that now, isn't it? We're kind of on the back foot here."

"Look past the slaughter your Imperial Guard so loves to indulge in and see what Cadia conceals in plain sight."

"The pylons," Izuru said.

"And the Archmagos has the answer to them."

"Well, what are they?" I said.

"Were you in my place, would you bother the master with ignorant questions?" Shesmet's lip curled. "As you saw there. He has no time for impatient hanger's-on."

Losing interest, I rummaged about on one of the tables, eyeing up the weaponry lying there whilst Izuru and Shesmet talked about the pylons. How could this Belisarius Cawl think that Cadia was salvageable when Zeke had the city above him surrounded on all sides. It would take a blessed miracle, arriving at the eleventh hour, for there to be any hope of holding out. Ideas of assassinating the Inquisitor were fast falling into disarray. But to cut and run now was unthinkable. And the only way from here was forward.

Picking up a familiar autogun, an Agripinaa, I butted into the two women's conversation. "Hey, what's all this?"

Giving me a disapproving look, Izuru shook her head. Shesmet, surprisingly, was more forthcoming. "Everything you see in this facility is a prototype crafted by the hand of the Archmagos himself."

"So, it's not junk, then?"

"Speak no ill of his creations. They are masterpieces, one and all." It was Shesmet's turn to look on in disapproval.

Opening the rifle's chamber, I peered inside at the greased bore. "So why didn't we get this stuff. Was it only for the Cadians?"

"Politics. That rifle uses electromagnetic force over conventional propellants. The Archmagos was very disappointed when the High Lords of Terra refused it. They did not want such a powerful individual weapon in the hands of the common soldiery."

Bemused at the peculiar mindset of the High Lords, and wondering who they were exactly, I shelved the Agripinaa and picked up a Kazalak sporting a skeletal folding stock and reddish polymer handguards. "And this?"

"The same. Though that fires airburst munitions. The High Lords are stubborn old men too mired in the past to be willing to change their way of thinking."

Uninterested in the rifles I had unearthed, Izuru said, "I would have words with the Archmagos. He may have answers I seek."

"The Archmagos will see you when he is ready."

"He seemed a bit batty, I thought," I said, running my hands over the body of a plank-like rifle with optics built into the carry handle.

"You forget yourself," Izuru said coldly. "We are guests in his house."

Clear now that Izuru was siding with Shesmet, I shut my mouth.

"Veilwalker!" the Archmagos's voice boomed.

"Veilwalker…?" Izuru said to herself. "The Shadowseer from the Avenging Blade!"

"Who?" Setting the odd rifle down, I rejoined the two. "Izuru, who's this Shadowseer?"

Folding her arms across her breast, Izuru stroked her chin pensively. "It was at the Ynnari Fleet. My mentor and I met with the Veilwalker and her Harlequin troupe before I separated to lead the Rangers through the Webway gate to Cadia."

"The who? I don't – I've got no idea what they are."

Shesmet laughed at my ignorance. "Your pardon. The Archmagos will see you now."

"What, just like that?"

Sneering at Shesmet, Izuru said, "James. On me."

This time around, the Archmagos withheld from bracing against possible assault, having left his mighty weapon leaning against the cogitator. The eyepieces underneath his hood now focused upon Izuru and I as we stood before him.

"Not the Veilwalker. But an Eldar nonetheless. Speak your name, young xenos," the Archmagos rumbled. I noticed that his left arm was still organic, albeit the same horrific green-grey pallor as his face was. Both organic and mechanical fingers intertwined as Belisarius Cawl gave Izuru his full attention.

"I am no Ynnari. I bow to no-one's decree but my own."

"Are you in league with the Veilwalker?"

"Nay. She dealt with my mentor. Wise beyond all, his is. Izuru Numerial is my name. Protégé of Eldrad Ulthran. Captain of Rangers. Slayer of Princess Saarania, commander-in-chief of the Void Dragons."

"Why does an imperial guardsman stand at your shoulder? What trickery is this, Ranger?" Cawl's monocle flickered when it settled on me.

"No deception. No lies. This is Sergeant James Larn, whom I am proud to name as my compeer and bloodmate in bond."

Unsure of exactly what the terms meant, I picked out the Archmagos's eyes, one milky white, the other hidden behind the monocle, hoping I did not look too puny to him.

"Protector of my offspring and defeater of the Thousand Sons," Izuru continued, a slight hint of pride in her voice now.

 _Defeater of the Thousand Sons?_ Hearing her say those words made the hairs upon my arms and the back of my neck stand on end, taught as a length of rope.

"Does he speak for himself, or does the Guard rip the tongues from their foot soldiers' mouths to ensure obedience?"

"I can speak," I said steadily. "I know when to shut up, as well."

"Wise. Men of few words are the best men. It took great courage to stand before me. Is courage not the first quality of a warrior?"

"I dunno… I don't know what we're s'posed to call you."

" _Hmph_. My lord. Esteemed Archmagos. Revered Magi Dominus," Cawl said. "You should be throwing yourselves on all fours, begging to be commanded as every single good dog in the Imperial Guard has been trained to do."

"Well, I won't kneel unless she does. And she'll never kneel."

Without budging, the two of us faced the Archmagos. I imagined the gears clicking over inside his cranium. For surely his organic brain had long since died, leaving him with nothing but an artificial mind to process the endless reels of data.

 _Come on, say something. Strike us from existence but at least do it quickly, for god's sake._

Against all my expectations, and hers, Belisarius Cawl laughed. What began as a low rumble, was soon resonating around the pitch-dark walls of the chamber. Then, pausing in his wheezing guffaws, Cawl said, "yes, but did you dance with him?"

"Dance?" Speechless, Izuru gazed at Cawl in wonderment.

"Indulge an old inventor, I entreat."

"Please, Archmagos. I would know if you were involved in Project Genus, for it is not Eldar in origin."

"Talk is for lovers. Dance and I shall answer."

" _Dance?_ " I mouthed, tossing a startled look behind me when there came an odd scratching noise from a wooden box with a crank attached to it. Music accompanied by a woman's soulful voice resonated from the splayed horn. Vacating the open space before the cogitator, Belisarius Cawl watched and waited.

Giving no instruction to me, Izuru took my left hand and placed it against her waist, with hers wrapped around my shoulder. My right hand and her left were clasped together, raised as if gesturing at someone. With all the fluidity of an abhuman, I followed Izuru's graceful movements, trying to sway where she swayed, and keep from stepping upon her toes. The soft brown boots, her one remaining piece of Ranger garb, would have been crushed under the thick leather soles of my combat boots. Embarrassed, I avoided looking at Izuru and instead concentrated on Cawl's humming, which he interjected with lines of the woman's song; somehow knowing the strange language she sang in.

"… _hold me tight and say that you'll miss me_ …" Cawl murmured.

Fumbling my footing, I trod on Izuru's toes, earning a pained grimace from her. _Sorry_ , I smiled weakly. Where a contemptuous jab might have been passed, Izuru instead smiled back, closing her eyes and tilting her head back, losing herself in the moment.

"… _I'm longing to linger till dawn…"_ Sang Cawl.

Peering around Izuru's shoulder when we spun around, it appeared that Cawl had lost interest in us entirely and was engrossed in a holographic pict. Light shone from a projector stored in his midsection, forming a two-dimensional image of a human couple sitting together, facing the pict-capture. Hunching over, his head listing over to one side, Cawl studied the two beings, remarking, in a tone of sheer wistfulness, "not all the knowledge in the galaxy could fill the space she left." Letting slip what sounded like an indistinct sob, the claws on Cawl's many feet dug harsh lines into the floor beneath him. "She would hate me if she saw me now."

Fearing we were losing Cawl to the past, I gave Izuru an unsure look before leaning up and rubbing my cheek against hers. Recollecting Keladi, and the affectionate gesture she gave me, drove nails into my gut when the sight of her cold body played itself over in my mind.

Moving at a slower pace now, I whispered into Izuru's ear, "ask about Keladi."

"No. Let us not retrace the past. All we will find is sorrow."

"Don't you want to know why she looked different?"

"Sometimes it is better to just leave questions unasked," Izuru replied in a hushed voice, her hand around the back of my neck.

"She was under my protection, Izuru. The blame's with me."

"And I forgive you, James. I forgive you. But, please, do not pursue this."

Parting with Izuru, I placed both hands on her shoulders and lifted myself up far enough for my lips to come into contact with hers.

"What an unholy matrimony that was," Cawl said sadly, his focus still upon his pict, that was until he noticed us. "…Oh."

With the song's conclusion we let go of one another. Expecting Izuru to come forth with the first question, I stood there patiently. No words were uttered by her, however. Gentle coaxing would not make her break her silence. It was down to me then.

"There was another. Another like her, Archmagos. Red hair, fair skin, a damaged eye. Does that ring a bell?"

A noticeable slump in the armour-plating covering Cawl's shoulders turned my heart cold. "Oh, my god. You do know, don't you?"

"Such a thing of beauty," Cawl lamented.

Lifting a finger at Cawl, I took a pace towards him. "D'you know what you've done? You killed her, doing that."

"I PROTECTED HER!" Cawl boomed. Lamps fixed to his upper carapace flashed wildly and steam shrieked from vents. "Not a soul upon Cadia would have granted her shelter. I housed her, made her better, saw off those that would have done her harm."

Digging into a compartment, Cawl ripped out a chain with a golden-rimmed letter I dangling from it. "The scourge of the Imperium. Not Chaos, not xenos, not heretics, but humans. Plain, arrogant, ignorant, violent, tailless hounds that walk upon their hind legs!"

"You've crossed paths with the Inquisitor, haven't you? There it is. He's wronged all of us. Me, you, Izuru, and Shesmet. Help us, Archmagos. Help us fight him."

Lumbering over to the cogitator, Cawl retrieved his halberd then, turning to face me, rammed the butt into the floor. Stepping backwards, I flinched when blue light sparked from Cawl's joints. "Already, my forces are poised to assault the Inquisitor's stronghold. You, young nobody, will be the catalyst of this sortie."

"Izuru." Extending my hand to her, I rested it on her arm. "The Archmagos is gonna help up."

Pale and frail-looking, Izuru cleared her throat and bowed her head. "Gratitude, Archmagos. By your leave, I would have answers on Project Genus. We danced for you."

"And you shall have it, dear young warrior." Briskly, Cawl consulted his cogitator.

"Hey, you're alright." I grinned. "Isn't this what you've been waiting for?"

"Mm, yes…" Izuru gave me a glum look.

"All your life?"

"…not, not really all of it, no."

"Arrakis!" Cawl grunted. "The datacard you seek is in the Arrakis Tower. It is one of the citadel's two bastion towers. The other is Tleilax Tower, where I require you to perform a task for me."

"Is this to do with these pylons, then?"

"You shall know soon. I will provide you with the tools to do so. But you must do _exactly_ as I say."

"Alright, Archmagos. If we do this for you then I want passage for my party off Cadia. Everyone." Catching Izuru's eye, I added. "Captain Numerial must be returned to her fleet, as well."

Her brow furrowing, Izuru's mouth opened. As if she did not understand what was going to happen after we had left Cadia. I had never said this about her before, but she was being quite naïve.

"Is that all, young man?"

"Izuru will be the one to kill him. Not you, not me, not Shesmet, not any one of your mechs. _Her_."

"Is this what you wish?" Cawl growled, looking past me to Izuru.

Her voice little higher than a whisper, Izuru nodded. "I must."

"Very well. The deal is struck."

"One more thing," I said.

"Speak."

"Those rifles back there…"

* * *

"Archmagos. Lance Corporal Lorne and Private Borens of the Imperial Guard," Shesmet said, ushering in the final pair of grunts. Shrewdly, Izuru had distracted Belisarius Cawl by regaling him with the tale of her time on Cadia, and during that time Shesmet had shepherded the others up in pairs. Grumbling in discontent at the small crowd that had grown from Izuru and I, Belisarius Cawl now addressed us gruffly. "My Adepts will show you to the living quarters. Be respectful, Imperial Guardsmen. You are in the House of the Adeptus Mechanicus."

At Cawl's words, a hooded tech-priest, his hands tucked inside wide sleeves made his way across to Cawl, bowed, and turned to us.

"Okay, follow the tech-priest, lads," I said. "Smartly now."

Leaving myself and Cyrano the last two to leave – with the exception of Izuru – I said, as we climbed up after the others, "we'll come back for the guns later."

"Charitable, for the AdMech. D'you want this back?" Cyrano had lugged my belt kit up from the silo floor with him.

"Good one, mate." Slinging the straps over one shoulder, I felt the comforting weight of my Volg, still in its holster. "Glasses?"

"Moisture got inside the lenses. They're US now. Sorry."

"S'alright. No harm done. Just need the forty-five, that's all."

"Wonder if these AdMech eat and drink like we do," Cyrano mused.

"I dunno. Hope it's not just oil and bolts, I'm bloody ravenous."

"Strange being, that Magi…"

" _Hunh_. Never had dealings with the Clankers before. Can't comment."

"Is Izuru…?"

"She's coming. Figured she might want to chat with the Archmagos privately."

"Is this about the other stickie?"

"Other Eldar, yeah. Keladi. Poor thing." Pausing for thought, I clicked my fingers. "Cyrano, I want everyone staying together. Don't let anybody out of your sight."

"Erm, very well."

"Once we're eaten and hydrated, I want all of us in one place."

"Well, I should think so. What – what are you planning?"

"We're having a group chat. No knives, no guns. Just my forty-five. We'll settle who's been informing for the Inquisitor before any of us gets shot in the back."

"James—"

"Cyrano, I'm ending this bullshit right now. Before we take on the Inquisitor. I'm sorry, but you're naïve to think there isn't a mole in the party. He's a clever bastard, he is."

"Well, there aren't many—"

"I'm going on four suspects right now."

"How so?"

"Keladi was shot from behind when me and her were outside the CCS, so we can rule the Cadians out. There's me, you, and Izuru too. So, that leaves only the Highlanders and the cooks."

"Lorne, Borens, Gale, Azar. But which one?"

"That's where Izuru comes in. She can read people."

"Alright."

"Nobody knows about this but me, you, and her."

"Understood, James."

"If we're successful. She will the one to do it."

"If that is what she wants."

"It's what I want. I'm getting tired of all this, Cyrano. One way or the other, I'm going home."

"We all go home."

Led by the silent tech-priest, the party was shown out of Cawl's sanctum and into a well-lit complex with a communal area in the centre, where the Adepts would gather for briefings. Furnished only for the puritanical hybrid human-mechs, the place lacked colour and simple comforts.

"Here you may stay. Do not stray from this area and do not interfere with the Adept's or the Servitor's tasks," the tech-priest, or rather, priestess said. Her vocal apparatus had a distinctly female tone to it.

"D'you have any food or water, Priestess?" Gale asked. "Latrines?"

The priestess's green eyes flashed. "Sustenance will be delivered. The latrines are down the corridor to your right. Third door on the right. Remain here otherwise." Without further ado, the priestess lowered her head and left the room.

"Anyone got the time?" I said.

Falling onto the comfortless seats arranged in neat rows in front of a wide screen connected to a cogitator, the Cadians and Cannons either put their feet up for a nap or began spreading out damp affects to let them dry. Without a timepiece among them, the grunts had no answer to my question. It was Sanna Senf who had the only working chrono.

"It is ten zero nine, Sergeant," she said.

"Wonder how the evacuation's going," Gale said.

Suspect as he was, I withheld from letting everybody know that the AdMech would be taking us off-planet, not wanting to give away any more information that the mole would send on to the Inquisitor. Unbuttoning my jacket and spreading it upon a vacant t-shaped seat, I addressed the party. "That don't concern us, right now. We're gonna be here until the Archmagos lets us know what he wants to do with us."

"Are you saying we are prisoners still?" an ILC man asked, with an affronted look.

"No. We're not prisoners. When the Archmagos is ready, we will come to an agreement with him about what happens next. Just sit tight for now."

With no mounting urge to relieve myself, I made use of one of the sinks in the AdMech latrine, running my dirty hands under the water for a full minute and thoroughly disinfecting them.

 _Hello, who are you?_ The reflection in the mirror glared.

 _Piss off_. I shot back.

"So these AdMech. Are they human, mech, or a bit o' both?" Azar, scowling down at the dirt underneath his fingernails, asked Gale.

"I don't know, Azar. Try asking that priestess when she comes 'round again."

" _Eurgh_. I dunno, Sarn't. She looked proper machine to me."

"Well, there you go. Anyway, when was the last time you did your teeth, Azar? Come on, show me them gnashers."

"Sarn't! I do 'em twice a month," Azar replied in mock horror.

Sighing, I picked up the straight razor and tube of cream Lorne had lent me and left the latrine, not wanting to be in Azar's company whilst I shaved. Barging past Cyrano on my way out, I paid him a fleeting grunt when he asked what was wrong. Considering returning to the communal area, my ears pricked up when they heard a whisper. Izuru, leaning against a steel frame of a doorway near the end the corridor, where it forked, jerked her head at me. _Come over here_.

"Not a social creature, are you?" she said when I leant on the frame opposite her.

"Hate small talk, is all." I shrugged, folding my hands behind me.

"I let my actions speak for me."

"Yeah, you would."

Snorting softly, Izuru said, "a single look can convey a thousand words. A single shot can change a war."

"You in the business of winning wars then?"

"It's what we are trained for."

"You trained for this?" I held out the folded razor.

Izuru smiled coyly. "I would not know what to do with that, myself."

"Not you. Me," I retorted indignantly, blind to her humour. Unfazed, Izuru smiled and led me down the left fork. From behind at least, she appeared human. Now ever moreso with her hair down and her hands in her pockets. Time spent away from her own people and amongst humans had passed some of the so-called lesser species' traits onto her. It had been the same with Keladi.

"So, fire and enclosed spaces?"

"I never pretended to be fearless. If I appear without fear, it is because it is expected of me."

"And when you froze up?"

Izuru made no further remark on the subject. Sensing I had encroached on something sensitive, I touched her bare arm. "Hey, you're going home soon. You'll be back with your people."

"The Ynnari are not my people. I am outcast in all but name," Izuru snapped.

"Then do something about it."

"With a face like mine, how do I live a normal life? Neither Eldar nor Human society tolerate half-breeds. We are no better than mutants in their eyes."

"Who says you need to try and fit into Eldar or Human society. Why not just join these Ynnari? Aren't they a bunch of outcasts? Harlequins, wasn't it. You've got your mentor for support too. Won't he sponsor you?"

"Well…"

"What if the Ynnari are the way ahead for your people? Ulthwé wouldn't break bread with the Imperium, Macha saw to that. But what about this new bunch? Izuru, your combat experience and support from your mentor will give you some serious pull in Ynnari affairs. And look how well-travelled you are. Not sure how many other Eldar can say that they've lived on three separate craftworlds in their lives. Convince the Ynnari to open talks with the Imperium. Extend the hand of truce, as you did with me."

Smiling widely, Izuru laughed. "You would talk politics with me?"

"It's not politics, it's common sense!"

"Ha-ha. James." Izuru slapped me on both shoulders. "My James."

Seeing we were now many corridors and passageways from the communal area, I said, "okay, not too far. I don't want to get lost."

"I do."

"What?"

Smirking, Izuru took the razor from my pocket. Feeling rather more apprehensive than I should have been, I led Izuru into a small room with floor-to-ceiling cylindrical pillars. Rings around the pillars glowed red. A fat generator, its bulk occupying the shadows, purred. Narrow channels were set in the floor, perhaps run-offs for the molten liquids from furnaces. The two-faced skull was everywhere.

Sitting facing each other in a gap between two AdMech storage cases, I passed Izuru the rolled-up tube. "You think of your children often?"

Applying the white cream to my jaw and underneath my chin, Izuru shook her head slowly. "I try and distance myself from friends, family, and loved ones during operations."

"They need you, Illic and Korsarro do."

"It is strange. I was seeing them on fewer and fewer occasions on Ulthwé. Before I left for Nemtess."

"Without a father they must have someone to look to for guidance. Someone who can teach 'em what's right and what's wrong. Me dad, he taught me the farm and how to fix the machinery. Me mum, cooking, cleaning, everything I needed to stand up on me own two feet when I came of age. What do they teach you, growing up on a craftworld?"

Unfolding the razor, Izuru placed her left hand at the base of my neck. "Tilt your head upwards, please."

"Got a bit o' scraggle on the underside—"

Shushing me, Izuru tapped the flat of the razor under the tip of my chin. "Up."

Complying, I fell silent, keeping still as Izuru drew the blade across my skin. "You pass through all the stages, you do. Fear, anger, depression, loneliness. And unless you find something that you can make your own and build an island to sit out the storm, you fall to insanity. That is what four-hundred years teaches you."

"Hope?" I said.

"Pardon?"

"Hope."

"Speculation is foolish, I know. But, we will successfully see the Archmagos's task through. I will eliminate the Inquisitor. Then we will all leave Cadia aboard an AdMech ship."

Smiling fondly, Izuru pressed my head down, starting on my cheeks. "See. Hope."

"I want what's best for you."

"And I you."

"That means you have to go home."

"James…"

"Look, Izuru. Truth is, you are the big and I am the small. Both…"

"Literally and figuratively?"

"Yeah." Taking a deep breath, I said, "when you go back, people will talk about you. The young protégé of Eldrad Ulthran; the one he named as his successor. Whether it's out of wonderment or loathing, I don't know. But people will talk about you. Now, when I go back. I'm gonna get thrown into circulation again. Tossed into the great green machine. Nobody will talk about me. I won't be James anymore. I'll be Larn. 84593820."

"You speak in metaphors. Why?"

"I'm saying after we leave, you and I are finished."

Removing the razor, Izuru rubbed her thumb along the flat. A muscle was going in her temple. "Spoken like a true soldier. Tactless."

"I'm not a soldier. I – I don't want to be a soldier any more. And if you know what's good for you, then you'll put your boots away too. But, what's most important, and you _have_ to make sure this happens; don't let Illic and Korsarro waste their youth away on soldiering. I can't think of one skill that I learnt in the Guard that I can take out with me back to civvy life. It's just a waste of youth, all this. Sure, I've made friends. But they come and go so much. I dunno how you could stand four-hundred years of that!"

Touching Izuru's wrist, I stroked the pale, hairless skin, whispering, "don't go after the Inquisitor. Don't. Let's help the Archmagos. We've a guarantee he'll fly us off Cadia. Don't you want to know where you came from, too?"

The wavering blade in Izuru's hand nicked the skin on my right cheek. "Sorry."

"Ahh." I bit down on the inside of my mouth, feeling the tiny trickle of blood mix in with the shaving cream.

"…James. I cannot abandon this task. I do this as much for you, as I do for Keladi, as I do for myself."

"How much for yourself though? Don't be blinded by vengeance. I know you make mistakes when that happens. Remember Platis?"

"James, do you wish to see your homestead burned to ashes, with the shadow of the Inquisitor hanging above it? As long as he lives, you will always be in peril. And I cannot protect you if I am with the Ynnari Fleet. I will not shy away from this fight. This ends today."

Knowing it was impossible to sway Izuru when her mind was so set on accomplishing something, I consented to her wishes. "And even if…"

"And even if…?"

"The Ynnari don't want to go to the table with the Imperium. You'll still hold us lot. Me, Cyrano, Aimo, and Ral dear to you?"

Finished, Izuru pressed a finger to the cut on my cheek. "There is something quite amazing about humans. Aside from your towering ignorance, you have a remarkable courage, and can be downright devious when the time calls for it."

With nothing to wipe away the flecks of cream, Izuru kindly lifted up the hem of her t-shirt. Shaking my head, I used my own shirt. Hers would have been stained otherwise.

"We shall part. But I will not say goodbye," Izuru said.

"Why's that?"

Looking away, Izuru scratched at her knee. "There is a finality, a certainty in death. There is also a finality in the word, goodbye. Now, I will not utter it because there may be a time, in the future, when your Imperium and the Ynnari are on better terms. Perhaps then, with the coming of the new millennium, we may join forces once more." Biting her lower lip, she smiled, showing her teeth. "How the galaxy will tremble at our union."

Clean-shaven, I rested my chin on my breast and watched the rise and fall of my chest. I had a driving impulse then. An urge to make our final private moments last in aeternum.

Rising, Izuru offered me her hands. "I am here."

Taking Izuru's hands, I let her pull me up into her arms, rubbing my cheek against hers and kissing her neck. Pressing Izuru against the container, I dug into the folds of her shirt, pinching her skin, lifting the thin cotton up. Her own hands assisting, Izuru pulled the shirt over her head and dropped it at our feet. Without a second's pause she helped me out of my shirt, careful not to unseat the old bandages. Gripping the back of my neck, Izuru pulled me closer, lifting a leg and hooking it around me, her mouth frozen in firm contact with mine. Electrified, I slipped my hands down to her swelling buttocks and gripped them fiercely, lifting her off her feet and sitting her down upon the edge of the container. The energetic pace with which I had manoeuvred Izuru sparked her heartbeat which drummed like a stubber inside her chest, increasing further when I nuzzled her ear and cupped her breasts. Tightening her legs around me, Izuru planted kisses upon my face, immersing the fresh skin with her hot breath whilst I played with her hair, brushing the thick mess behind one ear. I was pulling at the belt on her trousers before I had even thought about what I was doing. Neither of us was acting on reason.

Leaning back on both hands, Izuru lifted her hips, smiling as I worked her trousers down her legs. The lopsided grin unbroken, she whispered into my ear when she loosened the buckle on my belt. They were not words I wanted to hear.

"I – I can't do that, Izuru," I said firmly, keeping her hands away from me.

"You hardly withheld yourself before. Why now?" Puzzled, Izuru rested her head upon a hunched shoulder.

"If…" I swallowed hard, processing what I was about to say. "If we meet again, we will not part ways after. You have my word."

"You speak with clarity." All suggestiveness abandoned, Izuru looked at me solemnly. "Let it be written in the brightest wraithbone."

My face twisting, I let Izuru's hands go free, allowing them to undo my belt. It left both our trousers around our ankles and us immobile. Not that either of us was going anywhere. In a body that was not my own, we conjoined. Expecting to hear words hidden behind her own tongue, let loose in between gasps, Izuru offered nothing coherent. It was through her eyes that she conveyed the simple truth to me, one I could not help but acknowledge and reciprocate.

I may have been the first being to pass my bowels in an AdMech facility. But I was dead-certain that I was the first human to ever make love in an AdMech facility; to a xenos too. Perhaps it was not an achievement I should ever boast of. One worthy of shame, most likely. I had not meant to let so much time pass. Though we were preoccupied for only a short period, the rest trickled away like water through a funnel. Stiff but satisfied, our interwoven bodies, lying still, with the occasional loving nip, clung to the little measure of peace on the island we had built. _Hope endures_ , I thought, my arm around Izuru's shoulders. Nothing, not even something as potent as hate and malice could shake its foundations which were set in wraithbone, shining so bright it overcame the shadow of Zeke, Nathaniel, and the Inquisition combined.

Our peace was breached when a voice, calling from a corridor or two away, reached us. "Sergeant Larn, where are you?"

"That's the Cadians. They're looking for us," I said. "C'mon, Izuru, get wired. This is it."

Exchanging the heaps of clothing, unidentifiable in the half-dark, we got dressed. "What time is it?"

"Unsure. I lost track, I am loathe to admit," Izuru said, rolling her neck.

"So did I, bugger it."

"Something big is happening. The Archmagos wants to see you!" came the voice of one of the service troopers.

"Shit. What d'you think? Zeke. Inquisition?" I quickly straightened my beret, having to mould it back into shape from where it had been rolled on several times.

"Neither."

"How can you tell?"

" _Pfft_. I can't. It's an impossible question to answer."

"Okay, stay here a minute then follow on." Making for the open door, I held up a flat hand.

"No."

Striding over, Izuru turned me around and gave me a long lingering kiss. "Both of us. Together. By one another's side."

"There'll be talk…"

"Then let them talk. We are blood-bound. They will walk in our light, pale and timid. Step out from the child's shadow and walk out there with me. Let us face the enemy together. Only then will we prevail."

Dropping my gaze to the floor, I shifted on both feet.

"I want to see confidence and maturity in your eyes. Now raise your head and let it be true."

"And I want honesty and endearment in yours," I said, our gazes locking.

The ILC guardsman stopped dead in his tracks when he saw us coming towards him. "Sergeant Larn, the uh…"

"What is it, Guardsman?" I quickened my pace.

"The erm, the Archmagos would like to see you. You and the – the xenos too." He quailed physically when Izuru turned a stony glare in his direction. "Right now, says he."

"Did he say what about?"

"No, Sergeant."

"Okay." Exchanging looks with Izuru, I asked the Cadian what the time was.

"Sorry, Sergeant. Sergeant Senf has the only chrono. But I think it is just a little after twelve-thirty."

"Everyone gathered in the commune?"

"Yes, Sergeant."

"Right, keep them there. We might have orders soon." To Izuru, I said, "Right, Captain, let's see what this is about."


	44. Chapter 43

**The Kriegan Gates, Solarus District, 09:28**

Incensed at the blue-on-blue happening right before his eyes, Simon Corta closed Adrian Dranno's eyelids, prying the grunt's identity tags inside his shirt. _Bloody idiots_ , he thought, wanting to crush the metal disks in his fist. _See how you like it_ , a mocking voice spoke. _Remember Rakka? Your lapse of judgement saw your platoon zip a Cadian unit. How do you like it now?_

Awash with a slow-burning anger, Corta retrieved the other tags belonging to the two Cadians that were closest to Dranno and signalled furiously at the surviving scouts, all of whom were lying flat upon the pancake-like ground, to move in the direction of the gatehouse.

Fully aware it would be conduct unbecoming of an officer, Corta none the less intended to let the Cadian in command of the battalion that held the gates have it with both barrels. Dranno was one of his men, and not a Cadian, either. None of Cannon were.

"Friendly infantry coming in. It's our relief!"

 _We're not your relief, you brainless clots,_ Corta fumed, ignoring the Cadians guarding the narrow entrance to the inner barbican and the questions a few of them flung his way, pushing through the chokepoint of sandbags and leaping up the stairs.

Cadian shock troopers – the cream of the Imperial Guard! And they could not discern a friendly uniform unless it looked identical to their own silly bright khaki. _No, never mind the nobodies in olive grey. We're no better than PDF to you._

Through the honeycomb of tunnels Corta strode, barging past anybody that fell in his path. Holding his tongue, Corta was saving verbal denunciations for the Officer Commanding, wherever he was skulking. _Let him be a colonel. Or maybe a general. Bloody Cadians need a good boot up the arse. Remind them it's not just them that's fighting Zeke._

The general officer Corta desired turned out to be a full colonel, and one accompanied by a commissar and a major. As ever, no subalterns remained, all having been killed recently. Their command post consisted of a small table hidden behind a screen curtain in a dilapidated room. The larger area was taken up by bareheaded Cadians who were kneeling in prayer before a chaplain.

Ducking around where the ceiling had partly collapsed, Corta announced himself by clearing his throat, somewhat rudely. He however was past caring.

"What is it, Guardsman?" the colonel, wiry and balding, glared.

"Have you forgotten how to salute?" The commissar, his bony face twitching, rested a hand upon the bolt pistol holstered at his hip.

 _Shut up, you arrogant bastard. I don't answer to you_.

"I've come from Bastion One, sir," Corta said to the colonel. "R Company, Five Battalion. Outside, just now—"

"Numbers?" the colonel talked over Corta, clearly in no mood for bullshit.

"270 men, sir."

"Right, take up positions with your eyes upon the Elysion Fields," said the colonel. With that, he returned his attention to the map he and the major were looking over. The commissar continued to eye Corta warily.

 _Is that it then? No apology!_

"Sir, the contact your battalion had just now…"

"…A mistake." The colonel waved his hand dismissively. "No matter. We need the extra manpower."

"Does this look like a mistake to you, sir?" Corta held up the three pairs of tags.

"Your orders were issued. Where are your badges of rank?" The commissar said harshly. "Why are you out of uniform?"

"…Ah." The colonel registered the disks Corta held. Two were on black cord – Cadian, and the other was held by a string. "Major, did your platoons report any casualties?"

The major, a little younger, and possessing a full head of hair hesitated. "…Not to my knowledge, Colonel. We – we assumed the enemy's forward element was trying to break out of the city. We weren't aware relief was being sent."

"Sir, you've got two dead Cadians, and one of my own men, as well," Corta said.

"Yes, that's all very well to you, off-worlder. We have had three-hundred-times that number KIA over this past week. It is irrelevant!"

"Sir, can't your men tell the difference between a Cadian uniform and bloody OG? We're not all in your precious guards brigades. There are others fighting for your home, you know!"

"Alright." The colonel ripped a piece of paper from a notepad and passed it to the major. "Let us continue this discussion at your court-martial. Name and rank."

"2nd Lieutenant Simon Corta, C Company, 144 Battalion, 18 Brigade… sir," Corta jaw tightened. This was it. His career was about to take the plunge down the drain. He'd fucked it up. All over one man.

"Sir, I'd like an apology—"

"That's quite enough, Lieutenant!" The commissar snapped, spittle flying from between his broken teeth. "Take your insubordinate ideals and preach to the enemy. This is Cadia, you fool!"

"Sir!" Corta cut in to the commissar's rising tirade. "Am I to keep temporary command of my provisional company?"

"…Dare you talk over a commissar." The gloved hand opened the flap of the bolt pistol's holster. "Be judged by the Emperor's mercy…"

"We are currently in need of company-level officers, Commissar," the colonel said. "Lieutenant Corta and his men will join Eight Brigade. He himself will be judged fairly at a military tribunal – _after_ the battle is won."

That was that. Still with no apology issued in verbal or written form, Corta was dismissed, a note scrawled in pencil in his hand; a reminder that he was now on the hook and facing a sentence.

" _Throne, what is going on?_ " he said to himself, oblivious to the faces of Len Wharton and the R Company noncoms; Denali, Vassella, and Salveron. Unsure of where they were supposed to go, the combined body of C and R Company, gathering in the narrow corridor outside the CP, flocked to Corta like a herd of lost sheep.

"Sir, what are we doing now?" Wharton asked.

"Vassella, Denali, Salveron, we're joining Eight Brigade here. Get your fireteams into position, eyes on the west."

Crisply, the three corporals shepherded the Cadians along. The seventeen Cannon Company men lagged, looking to Corta for his orders.

"Good lads, the lot of you." Corta said, patting Wharton on the shoulder. "Alright?"

"Just wondered what's up, sir."

"Oh, don't worry about that." Corta laughed, presenting a don't-care attitude that was not at all representative of his current mental state. "What I want you to know is…" Beckoning the Cannons closer, he continued quietly, "…we must be ready to retrace our steps at a moment's notice. Don't get comfortable here and avoid arousing the Cadian's suspicion."

"Are we leaving already, sir?" Colvin frowned.

"We just got here, sir." Arrigo's worried eyes flitted around the other Cannons, exchanging baffled looks with them.

Giving a warm, fatherly smile, Corta said, "does that make sense, lads?"

A chorus of yes's and yeah's smoothed over Corta's worry. _To hell with Cadia_ , he thought. Corta would see the remains of Cannon Company onto the ships before the day was out. Let the Cadians sacrifice their lives. It was their home they were fighting over; not his. If the Cadians could not hold off Zeke before then they certainly had little chance of stemming the flood at the curtain wall. Zeke, backed up by Nathaniel, would find a weakpoint and burrow their way through. Then Kraf would be lost.

The dismal state of the defence was underlined when Corta looked out across the moat that ringed the curtain wall, seeing the ungodly heave of bodies piles up there. So high were they, that Zeke no longer had to worry about forging the forty-foot-wide and twenty-foot-deep moat. He could saunter across.

"How the hell did the Cadians let this happen, sir?" Wharton, beside Corta, looked out of the wound blasted in the armour plate, a fraught look upon his tired face.

With nothing intelligent to offer beyond speculation, Corta gave a resigned shake of his head. The bodies were not just filling up the moat, they held dominion over a space many hundreds of yards around the curtain wall. Cadian and Zeke alike were locked in almost-loving embraces where they had perished. Bayonetted M-36s, Vintoks and Kazalaks were jammed inside torsos and skulls. Ugly Chaos pennants, their colours little more than rags, flew half-heartedly in the breeze. Walkers – spindly bipedal scouts and squat beasts with chunky superstructures stood burnt out and immobile, some lying flat or on their flanks like dead animals. They were all dead animals out there. A coating of blood had darkened the earth. The creeping taint of Chaos, bolstered by the slaughter, was killing the grass, poisoning the land the Cadians had died for.

"I think we're wasted here, Wharton," Corta said, the grim realisation of his and the company's horrible insignificance smacking him in the face with the subtlety of a mallet. "Old C-for-Cannon's no use to the Cadians."

Corta's commitment to the Imperium no longer seemed relevant. He could die for the Emperor, and his command die with him for good measure. But it would change nothing. Nobody would remember them. This was a Cadian fight. No amount of zeal and faith could help turn the tide, for it was already against them. Better he and his men lived to fight another day.

 _I'm not dying on a foreign world I don't care about. Let the Cadians give their lives for their homeworld. Throne, I want to live!_

"You were right, damn you, Larn," Corta said to himself.

"What's that, sir?"

"Larn was right," Corta added, paying no attention to Wharton. "I think it's every man for himself now."

* * *

 **Belisarius Cawl's Facility, 12:33**

Izuru's disappearances were no longer worthy of remark. This particular occurrence however happened when she was walking a scant two feet from my shoulder. So discreet her departure, I did not notice, leaving me alone with the ILC man.

"What's your name, Guardsman?" I said, unaware Izuru had slunk off.

"Ramber," the service trooper said curtly.

"Hm, 'kay." Put off by the Cadian's cold veneer, I glanced over at the space Izuru should have been occupying. "Izuru?" I mumbled, puzzled as to her whereabouts.

Heading back into the communal area, I nodded at Cyrano who spread his hands out wide. _Where have you been?_

"Sergeant?" Sanna Senf came over and waved a half-empty ratpack at me. "Some rations?"

"Er, cheers for that, Sarn't—"

The fist that came underneath the packet slammed into my midriff before I could react. Doubling over, gasping, I was dragged backwards by Ramber. Sanna Senf, grabbing my neck, pressed a small foldout knife against my jugular.

"Whoa, whoa!" Cyrano, the quickest off the bat, lunged for my dry belt kit and drew my Volg, aiming it at Senf with both hands. The Highlanders and cooks, springing up, kicked chairs aside and looked ready to fight the four other service troops.

"Guess we can't play nice then," I wheezed.

"Silence, heretic! Traitors and deserters, all of you!" Sanna cried. "Where is the xenos bitch? By the Golden Throne, Ramber, where is she?"

"She was right beside the heretic, Sergeant." Ramber began to twist my arm behind my back. "I do not know where she went. It was instantaneous. She was there one second—gone the next."

"Alright, alright. Back away, all of you." Cyrano swept the Volg's muzzle across the service troops.

"Fuckin' Imperial Guard. Yar deid!" Lorne gripped a chair by its legs and brandished it menacingly. The response from the ILC men was to raise their hands and back away from the cooks and Highlanders, who looked intent on murder.

"They weren't meant to be armed, Sergeant," Ramber hissed, trying to hide behind my back, whilst Sanna was trying to do the same. "Where did that stub pistol come from?"

"Shut up." Sanna snapped. "You men, Imperial guardsmen! You would defend a heretic and a traitor?"

"Aw, y'see, love, we ain't exactly Imperials." Lorne grinned. "Gellen Highlanders ain't in the fuckin' Guard. Normally we'd be wastin' wet-pants like you. Ain't that right, Ben?"

"Ah that's right, mate." Borens hefted his chair, mock-swinging it in the Cadian's direction, inciting them to retreat further.

"Traitor Guard?!"

"Let him go." Cyrano held the Volg rock-steady.

"No shooting, mate." I winked, hoping Cyrano would refrain from any violent action before Izuru could step in. "Sanna? We're not in the business of hurting—"

"Silence, scum!" Sanna pressed the blade point in further. "Where is your xenos lover? Tell me! You men. Highlanders. Weren't you wondering why this wastrel of a boy and the xenos had stolen away for hours? What more evidence do you need that he is a heretic? Didn't you wonder what was going on between them?"

"Yeah and I wa' wonderin' why there ain't no chocolate bar in this 'ere ratpack an' all." Lorne shook a crumpled brown packet at us. "I couldn't care less what you Cadians think about James and the xenos. S'not my problem!"

"Aah. Deserters, one and all!"

"What do we do, Sergeant?" Ramber muttered.

"Leave off," I said. "Think ain't gonna work. Just give up. We won't hold it against you. Our fight's with the Inquisitor."

"Inquisitor?" Sanna gasped. "What are you; assassins?"

"Put your knife down. Cyrano will put my forty-five down then we'll talk."

"No. Trust not the word of the heretic—"

"Aw, wake up, Cadian," I said, receiving a blow in my side from Ramber.

"Last chance, Cadian." Cyrano was eight feet away. I had not a clue if he had a clear shot but hoped he didn't.

"Last chance, traitors," Sanna said. "Kick the stub pistol towards me."

"Nothing doing."

"Shit!" Azar, dropping his chair, gaped as a blur of black material leapt across the room. Catching sight of it out of the corner of his eye, Ramber tried to manoeuvre me into Izuru's path. "By the Emper—" he shouted, losing grip on my arm as he was propelled backwards, as if a giant boot had connected with his torso.

"Throne of—!" Sanna, crying out in terror, was snatched off her feet and tipped upside down. Held completely vertical for a second, she was promptly slammed onto her head, her neck cracking as it connected with the floor. Cowering, my hands over my head, I went white as Izuru flung the body aside and, with terrifying speed cartwheeled over Ramber's head, landing a solid kick to the base of his neck, bowling the gobsmacked Cadian over onto his front.

If there had been any fight in the other Cadians, it had evaporated completely with the frighteningly efficient killing of Senf and Ramber. Cowed, the service troops let themselves be taken in by the cooks and the Highlanders. Scrambling over to Sanna, I felt for her pulse. Nothing. Her neck was broken.

"Fuckin' 'ell, Izuru!" I shouted. "You didn't 'ave to kill them!" Cyrano's hand on my shoulder, I shook off. "Izuru!"

Picking up Ramber by the back of his head, Izuru looked at me coldly. "Yes, I did. She would have been trouble. Terminating her now eliminates a threat to us."

"Wha' 'bout them?" I aimed a finger at Arken, Gunnel, Mrenk, and Kasabo. "You wanta waste 'em lot too?" A slur – my accent – was in my voice now I was angry. When I was riled it was almost as thick as the Highlanders' accents.

"She did it to protect us. To protect you," Cyrano, ever-reasonable, said gently. "Were there a less-violent outcome, she would have considered it."

"Highlanders, cooks, keep them Cadians here." I shouted, my voice hoarse.

"Whadda we do with 'em?" Lorne asked.

"Just keep 'em there for now," I said, retrieving my Volg from Cyrano. "Okay, you lot. Sweep these chairs to the sides of the room. Nice an' tidy now. You, Cadians, sit yourselves in a semi-circle in the centre of the floor." Clapping my hands, I barked, "iggery!"

The loud conveying of authority in my voice transformed the Cadians from nervous wetnoses into vague caricatures of guardsmen that obeyed my order instantly. With Izuru and I watching, the grunts and service troops tidied away the chairs, leaving four in the middle for the Cadians to sit upon. When that was done, I stood in front of the Cadians and patiently explained what the plan was.

"Heresy," one of the Cadians spat.

"You understand this is a very bad man we're fighting here. You won't be exempt just 'cause you're Cadians and you refused to help us. You're in it just as deep as we are now. You can't go back. Only forward." Waving my hand, I continued, "you call it what you like. We're going all the way. We've got to. Either you come with us or you're going out the same way your sarn't did. My colleague won't be so gentle next time."

The mention of Izuru had the Cadians stirring uneasily and chancing quick looks over their shoulders at where she was standing a little way behind them. Her presence was enough to cow them into subservience. _No doubt their commissars would have presided over them in a similar manner,_ I remarked.

"Please, if I die let it not be at the hands of a xenos," a trooper pleaded.

"Nah, look, what's your name?"

"Losius Arken… uh, Sergeant."

"You won't be touched, alright. That's my word. As long as you come with us. We do this thing for the Archmagos and maybe we can get off this bloody wart of a world and go home."

"We are home!" A Cadian, resentful at the insult to his home, stood up. "Don't you call it that!"

Quickly, Izuru was looming over his shoulder. A fierce look from me settled her desire to inflict further harm upon the Cadians.

"Siddown, lad. Don't know who yar dealin' with, 'ere." Lorne, leaning against a pillar with his arms folded, smirked sardonically.

"It is alright for you off-worlders. You can up and leave without a care. This is _our_ land we're fighting for."

"And I'd say the same if it were my home under threat. But Cadia's lost. It's every man for himself now. I don't want no more o' this bollocks from any o' you," I said firmly. "We're all in the same boat, floating down the same river o' shit."

For a moment I debated whether or not to inform the others that deliverance was guaranteed by the AdMech. Izuru's action may have saved us from any lives lost on our side but it was impulsive and frankly quite stupid. The Inquisitor's spy was still among us. And with the number of possibles unchanged, really Senf and the other man's murder had solved next to nothing. Hoping I was making the right decision, I withheld that piece of information.

"So, what now, Larn?" Gale, Azar beside him, looked glumly at me.

"I tell you, we're standing-by right now. The Archmagos wants to see us. Don't know what about but I reckon we'll be getting our marching orders soon. Won't be too much longer now, lads."

Snatching my dried-out LP jacket and belt kit from where they were sitting on a seat, I mirrored Izuru's path, skirting around the edge of the commune and meeting her at the mouth of the passage leading down to Cawl's inner sanctum.

Occupied with re-seating my webbing and fastening the two ends of my belt together, I withheld from confronting her until I was sure we were alone then, turning to the tall woman, I shook my head in displeasure. "Number ten. That weren't proper."

"Weren't proper!" Izuru scoffed. "James, she would have gladly slipped that knife into your neck, all the while praising her corpse-emperor for allowing her to rid the galaxy of one less heretic. I did you a favour. Ridding us of that woman eliminates a threat to our integrity." Moving closer, she gripped my shoulders, a mad look in her eye. "I did it for the two of us. We are all that matter now."

"No. Number ten, Izuru."

" _Bah_." Izuru sneered.

"What's more, Sanna weren't the traitor. That other bloke weren't either. There's still someone among us who ain't who he says he is. We're still in danger, Izuru. Violence won't solve this."

"Anyone that clings to the immoral notion that violence never solves anything I would advise to conjure up the ghosts of Lord Solar Macharius and Asuryan and let them debate it. Perhaps the fragments of Khaine can referee…"

"…Who, what?"

"Naked force has settled more issues in the history of the galaxy than has any other factor. Any race, any being of the contrary opinion has paid or will pay for it with their lives and freedom. That is how the galaxy works, James. We survive, you and I, because we are violent beings. Our races, both Mankind and Eldar, are savages revelling in violence."

Pausing, I turned to face Izuru. "Yeah, but there's a time and a place for aggression. And knowing when not to resort to it… I reckon that's the most important thing. And back there – you didn't need to tear into them Cadians like you did."

"Would a firm tone have smoothed it over?" Izuru said mockingly. "They would not recognise diplomacy if they were beaten over the head with it. I communicated in the only language they know. The only language we share in common; violence. I proved superior. Therefore, I am right and they are wrong."

"You should hear yourself…" Astounded at the haughtiness in Izuru's voice, my mouth dropped.

"Meekness was always a trait I despised. Life must be seized with boldness, lest the soul be condemned to obscurity."

"Now you're speaking like an Eldar again. Who are you?"

"I _am_ Eldar." Izuru tossed her head contemptuously. "And like _Badbaltrilas_ I shall descend upon the evil that is the Inquisition, singing vengeance, with blade in hand and curse upon lips."

Stunned at the abrupt change in Izuru's attitude, I halted in my tracks. So caught up in her enticing fantasy, Izuru remained unaware. For an instant, I was not sure I wanted to follow her down into the Archmagos's sanctum. Loyalty to my mates I felt drawing me back to the commune. _No more deaths_ , I swore. _Let us all go home_. _Let go of vengeance, damn it._

"Izuru, don't go after the Inquisitor."

Standing on the spot, Izuru spun neatly around, her head hung low and a frown stretching over her features; her darkened face rising to look at me.

"Just… if you go after the Inquisitor, you'll die. Now, I want a future for you; a long, comfy, happy one where you're just a normal family. You, Illic, and Korsarro. You _have_ to get back to them. Don't leave them growing up without parents. Please." Linking my hands, I implored Izuru to reconsider. "Let him come to us instead. Don't go seeking him out. Let's all go home."

Her eyes were shut, as if in meditation. Not a single spasm or shiver stole over her pale face, marked as it was by lines and scars; its loveliness tarnished by conflict. Stepping closer to her, I waited for her reply.

"Don't you think we've hurt each other enough?" Repeating the question I had asked her on the eve of her departure from the Grace, I watched for her reaction. "Maybe if we're done knocking seven shades out of one another we could…"

" _Silence_."

"No, you're not shutting me up. Let's speak truth. What's the Eldar word for truth?"

" _Fhirin_."

"And what is the truth?"

Deep lines appeared across Izuru's brow. At the moment her expression cracked, she reached for my shoulders and drew me into a hug. "Hate ebbs. Vengeance wanes. Retribution is a lost cause. Survival is cardinal."

"We're with you, Izuru. All of us," I breathed, nuzzling her shoulder.

"Mmm…" Letting slip a muffled sob, Izuru kissed my forehead. "Know that I would never allow harm upon you, James."

"S'what I'm worried about."

Her grip relaxing, Izuru's content expression slowly turned to horror. "If we do not stand true to one another, where do we stand? I refuse to be a stranger to you…"

"No, it's changed nothing. We're still like that, alright." I held up my crossed fingers. "We're tight. Just don't be falling over yourself to protect me. It's not just me and you that matter. That's selfish, that is. It's those fellas back there…"

"Most of whom we cannot trust."

"Well, Cyrano's alright at least… I'm just not ruling them out. They've got just as much right to a better life. Izuru, I'm _avten_ , aren't I?"

Her face twisting, Izuru rubbed at her throat. "Yes, yes, James. I… apologise. I am sometimes blind to all else if you are involved in danger. A madness possesses me. I feel it only when those that are close to me are in mortal peril."

"S'alright. I don't want you all worried about me. I'll be fine. Promise." Craning my neck, I stood as tall as I could and pecked Izuru on the lips. "That's a madness as well, innit?"

"Hmm." Izuru looked at me dubiously.

"Isn't it?" I repeated, correcting myself. It was something she approved of evidently with warmth achieving victory over her icy expression.

"A madness, yes. Such a fine line separating it from hate too."

"Ah, don't worry about it. I've got mates, mates that look out for me. I'll be alright, Izuru." Laying a hand upon her chest, I felt for her trembling heart. "Let me see calm."

Rubbing my shoulders, Izuru smiled sadly. "I yearn for comrades-in-arms like yours. Alas, I squandered mine. And I would not see you squander yours."

"I'm trying. I'm trying, Izuru. We've just got to stick together."

It was my turn to gather Izuru in my embrace, slipping my arms underneath hers. A new voice, female and mechanical broke us apart. The same techpriestess from earlier, carrying herself in as quiet a manner as was somehow possible for one with so much metal in her, lifted her head from underneath its hood. "Archmagos Cawl awaits your presence, human-xenos," she said, without the least bit of concern for her intrusion.

"Uhh, alright. After – after you," I said, red-faced. "This better be good," I said offhandedly to Izuru. She simply smiled.

* * *

 **Kasr Kraf Airbase, Solarus District, 12:43**

Enveloped by a chill wind, uncustomary to the Cadian spring, the exhausted and thoroughly demoralised Imperial guardsmen, naval personnel, and civilians clustered in herds, sheltering from the cold underneath crude hovels erected from overturned vehicles. Many simply huddled in the open, swathed in blankets or capes, their covers tilted into the wind. There had been no sign of friendly air cover. But neither had the enemy's bombers shown their ugly snouts. It was as if the airbase, a tiny rock of isolation in the stormy waters, had fallen into limbo where time had frozen. The crisp pop of rifle fire, staccato rhythm of automatics, and distant bellowing of those unfortunate enough to be facing off against the enemy were uneasy reminders that no matter how hard the Imperials slowed the enemy's advance, they were still coming. Certainly, the disarray in the streets had grown slowly louder throughout the day, stretching the nerves of those trapped in the cauldron taut.

The assured confidence Donjeta Lapraik had of making orbit before the day was out had been torn from her, savaged and kicked around at her feet. Despairing inside, Lapraik now paced around the roof of the bunker underneath the blackened muzzles of the Hyperios turret. Leaving Captain Meynell monitoring the comms station, Lapraik and Venant had taken it in turns with Venant's magnoculars to scan the skies. Nursing the privately-purchased optics in her cold hands, Lapraik started when Venant slipped his heavy greatcoat over her shoulders. It was much colder on the bunker roof, exposed to the wind as it was.

"My thanks, Will." Lapraik offered Venant the glasses back in return for his generosity.

"Anything?" Venant asked.

Shaking her head, Lapraik said, "it'll take a miracle to lift everyone. I'm not sure I'm ready to give up after coming so far…"

"I see something."

"Oh?"

"Looks like a table laid out for two…"

Lapraik could not have been less in the mood for foolery. Tutting, she plucked the glasses from Venant's hands and brushed them off. "Really, Colonel."

"Well, it was laid before. I waited for you, you know. Greatly anticipated it. Two colonels bantering, trading quips. The sort of business two colonels might involve themselves in during downtime. You never told me what you did…"

"Is knowing my branch of service not enough for you, Will? A lieutenant colonel has no business associating with a colonel other than on matters professional. You are a superior officer."

Venant's grey eyes, sore from sleeplessness, fell. Disheartened at the formality of his friend and colleague, the colonel touched Lapraik's shoulder.

"Don… when the first ship berths tonight, I want you flying out on it."

"Is that an order?"

"A colonel of intelligence is wasted sitting around idly here. You are valuable to…"

Lapraik glanced sharply at Venant.

"…to the – to the Imperium."

"I will not."

"Why. Are you not allowed to tell me?"

"Better to keep a tight tongue, Will. There is safety in ignorance." Lapraik winked, drawing a tired smile from Venant. "Perhaps a prayer to the Emperor for deliverance?"

Venant shrugged. "The amount of praying I've seen this past week has made me quite sick seeing it. Piety I am all for, of course, but I'm beginning to think it doesn't do any good."

"Well…" Lapraik, huffing, dropped to her knees. "I am a devout Imperial and follower of the faith. Hear me, Holy One."

"Don?"

Lapraik ignored Venant, instead focusing on the image of the Emperor she had in her mind.

"There's something…"

"Of course, but what will we eat?"

"I – I'm sorry? Don, I can see something in the sky."

Annoyed at the interruption, Lapraik shielded her eyes and peered upwards. "What do you see?"

In equal astonishment and elation, Venant grinned. "Look."

"What?" Accepting the magnoculars, Lapraik pressed the soft rubber to her eyes, a lump rising in her throat. " _By the Golden Throne_ …" she whispered, awestruck. " _His angels_."

And they were angels to her, angels with bodies of steel and wings bearing blessed ordnance of salvation. Dropping from the evil murk that had rolled over Kasr Kraf, a vic of small, one-man fighters in bright yellow dipped their noses as they soared over the startled masses who believed, initially, that the enemy had returned to further pummel them into submission. _Stormtalons!_ Lowering the glasses, Lapraik laughed aloud when bigger ships began to appear behind the advance wings. Thunderhawk gunships, boxy, square-jawed affairs, in their dozens, made their slow descent towards the airbase, inciting onlookers on the ground, those that had not immediately taken cover upon hearing aero-engines, to point up into the suddenly-crowded sky.

Feeling Venant's hand on her shoulder, Lapraik placed her hand upon his, for the first time in many days feeling content.

"A miracle," he said.

"Deliverance."

Bolstered by the arrival of Marines, the first few figures got up, waving their arms and beginning to cheer. More and more followed when, behind the Marine transports, civilian ships appeared through the clouds. Helmets, rifles, canteens, anything that was immediately on hand was waved into the air, the exuberance of the soldiers quickly spreading like a wave across the entire base. Pumping fists skywards, all weariness forgotten, guardsman, sailor, and civilian all cried out as one. The collective roar of euphoria was loud enough to triumph over the haranguing murmur of Chaos. For once the unseen beast was silenced.

Such a wilful display of happiness gnawed at Lapraik's heart. Unexpectedly, her eyes welled up with tears, not because of the Marines' arrival, but over the cries of joy from all the poor souls who had believed the Imperium had abandoned them. It gave her hope.

Over the now-raucous noise of cheering and singing going on below them, Lapraik turned to Venant, trying to keep the surge of emotion from riding proudly upon her features. "Well, we might have to look to a date after all, Colonel," she said, nodding shortly.

"Should I demote myself or recommend you for promotion, Don?" The picture opposite of Lapraik's calm demeanour, a wide grin had attached itself to Venant's dirty face. Beaming, Venant hugged Don, laughing and slapping her back.

Feeling herself be lifted up on tiptoes, Lapraik removed herself from her friend's embrace, mildly embarrassed at the breach in professionalism. Smarting, she busied herself with the magnoculars, hoping Venant would not notice how ruffled she was by the physical contact.

"Who – who are they?" Venant raised his voice to be heard over the clamour of engines and rampant celebration. "Don?"

Lapraik was following a banking Thunderhawk with her glasses. Now the Marines had made their grand entrance, the combat vessels were spreading outwards, throwing out picquets into the skies around Kraf. She saw squadrons of Stormtalon interceptors and Stormraven gunships, every single ship painted in that bold yellow. Such brazen livery went against every rule in the book, but the Marines' doctrine, of course, was entirely different to that of the Guard and the Navy. Catching sight of a roundel upon the Thunderhawk's short, stubby wing, Lapraik recognised the white and black fist on display.

"The Fists!" she cried in jubilation. Clapping a hand over her mouth, Lapraik bit down upon her tongue. It was impossible to withhold excitement, not when everybody else was so overjoyed to be blessed with the coming relief.

"Fists?" Venant, still smiling, shook his head. "Don, it's alright. Share the moment with us."

Bashful, Lapraik pressed her thumb and forefinger against her tear ducts, determined to prevent the onset of tears. She stopped when she saw Venant too had become teary-eyed.

"Shall we let Captain Meynell know?" she sniffed, taking the proffered tissue from Venant.

"I saw them." Captain Meynell, not sharing the two officers' good mood, waved a piece of paper at them when they clambered down from the roof. "Signal from the admiral." The green sheet had just been churned out of a portable cogitator next to the signals set and was still warm. "Codeword: Phalanx. Not sure what it means."

"Phalanx!" Lapraik exclaimed. "The Fists' Fleet Headquarters."

"How do you know that, Colonel?"

"Well, intelligence, I suppose…" Lapraik couldn't really put it any other way.

"Anything else you know about the Fists?"

"Well, they're a Terran Chapter. They specialise in siege operations."

"Anything relevant to the situation?"

"Not really, sir. We're just glad they're here. Thank the Emperor."

"Right, we still have a job to do, so let's see about getting these men and women embarked and out of the system." Meynell left Lapraik and Venant to their own devices then and busied himself with the now-bustling comms channels. "Commander Cudden should have been back by now. Have you heard anything from those transports?" Meynell asked the signals rating monitoring the vox.

Pressing one half of his headset into his ear, the rating ripped a piece of paper from a notepad and scribbled on it. "Report just in, sir. Two Aquila landers were shot up by enemy fast air. Both went down in flames." Expressionless, the rating passed the notepaper to Meynell. "I'm sorry, sir."

Knowing he needn't read what the rating had recorded, Meynell nodded, feeling a curious tug in his gut. "Alright. Keep monitoring the bands." Not wanting to pass Cudden's death onto the two Guard officers, Meynell went outside, found and corner in the sandbag wall, and was quietly sick. Praying nobody had seen the naval captain acting out of line, Meynell wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stood up, kicking dirt over the lumpy white liquid his stomach had heaved up. _Throne, let it end!_

Four days Meynell had been awake, constantly alert for significant developments in the evacuation and rear-guard, frightened that he would miss something vital if he drifted off to sleep for even a moment. At fifty, Meynell was acutely aware that he was no longer a young man. Having served for thirty-five years in the Navy, he would admit that being upon the ground without a ship and a crew to command had added more years to him than had he been up in orbit captaining his old command, the light cruiser Arethusa. His mounting stress and the infuriating lack of progression, not to mention the generally poor showing that was the so-called co-operation between services, only stretched his nerves further, pushing them down to new lows.

The showing of the Marines had secretly disappointed Meynell who had hoped that the relief would be spearheaded by the Navy, and not the Astartes, who were most definitely not in the slightest bit sympathetic to the plight of those trapped on the ground. Battle was what the Marines sought, and if a few more Imperial Guardsmen, sailors, and civilians died in the process then that was irrelevant. Dispirited, Meynell hurried back inside the bunker, receiving two further updates from signals; both from the admiral. Bringing not just themselves, the Marines had granted a small flotilla of civilian vessels, some charter, some merchant, escort. According to Admiral Quarren, the empty ships were now bound for the airbase.

The second communique piqued Meynell's interest. It concerned the charter vessel, _Ionia_. With a capacity of 2000, and a crew of 400, the massive ship could in theory carry a near-total of 2500. The reason for _Ionia's_ specific mention was that it could make the descent through the atmosphere, along with the lighter vessels, and set down upon the ground; meaning it would require a huge amount of space to be cleared for it to berth safely. So many space-faring vessels could operate in orbit only. _Ionia_ was not one of them. Its thrust to tonnage ratio allowed it to land, take on passengers, and lift off, even under full capacity. _Remarkable_. _I wasn't expecting a ship of such magnitude to come to our aid,_ Meynell remarked. On a darker note, _Ionia's_ sister-ship _Tyrrhenia_ had been destroyed undertaking a similar endeavour on the planet Nemesis Tessera. _What was it – 4000 men lost when Tyrrhenia went down?_

Hoping _Ionia_ would not share its sister-ship's fate, Meynell tucked the hand-written communiques inside a pocket and spoke to the Guard officers. "Colonel, we have twenty-seven civilian transports making their approach, one of them is a 20000-tonner. They'll be here within half an hour. I need your officers to start organising files. Mine will be marking out landing zones."

"Very well, Captain. I'll see to it," said Venant.

"What can I do, sir?" Lapraik asked.

"Go with Colonel Venant or stay here. It doesn't matter."

"Yes, sir." Lapraik chose to head out with Venant, leaving Meynell alone.

Pondering on his reply, Meynell began to dictate to the signals rating. "Senior Naval Officer Cadia to General Officer Commanding Ground Forces Cadia. Expect rapid progression in current undertaking. Be aware of Blue air forces in the area of operations. Pay heed to our close friends. Co-operate but make sure to keep them at arm's length."

With the notification sent to General Creed, Meynell laid out the reply to Admiral Quarren. "SNO Kraf to SNO Battlefleet Cadia. Message received and understood. Grateful for friendly air cover. Will work overtime to ensure completion of operation."

* * *

 **Bastion 1, General Headquarters I Corps, 12:46**

Major General Alexis Rebbeck read the look off Creed's face the moment he had the communique in his hands. _Good news?_ Rebbeck wondered.

"Gentlemen. The hour of our salvation is at hand," Creed announced, brandishing the sheaf of paper the cogitator had just spat out to the gathered staff officers.

"Good news, sir?"

"Capital!" Creed barked, sticking an unlit cigar into his mouth and chewing on it. "Graciously, the Imperial Fists' Fleet Headquarters has arrived in orbit. I say yea, yea! Not that we ever needed to be relieved anyway…"

Some laughter went around the officers. Rebbeck himself snorted but otherwise remained silent, awaiting Creed's decision.

"Now the Adeptus Astartes are battling the enemy for control of the skies, and their ground forces joining our Guards Divisions on the perimeter, we are free to attack. Grab 'em by the balls and twist!"

This was it. Creed's grand plan was about to be unfurled. _Throne, he never disappoints_ , Rebbeck smiled. His confidence in Creed had never waved.

"Now, how about a two-pronged assault, gentlemen?" Creed swept the holo-map of Kasr Kraf westwards, showing the western curtain wall and the Kriegan Gates. "Eight Brigade: The Lord Castellan's Own holds the Kriegan Gates. Colonel Glumen's men, devout soldiers of the Emperor, one and all, will attack westwards across the Elysion Fields. They shall do so with the rest of Third guards Division – Nine and Twelve Brigade. Sallying from the curtain wall also: 111 and 201 Whiteshield Brigade. Time our youth tasted blood. B Squadron of Kasrkin 'K' Detachment will be in the vanguard."

 _Kasrkin. What use has Creed for special forces? In the vanguard too_ , Rebbeck wondered. In his element, Creed swept the map outwards, aiming his laser pointer at the southern side of the Korg Mountains. "This was kept most secret. And secret it is still. Now though, the time is right. Here, within the mountains is a Salvation Base. Our architects and engineers, bless them, have been building – and are still technically building – underground facilities constructed purposely for situations like this. Let me cut to the chase, for time is short. Nine armoured regiments – three divisions approximately – are fuelled, armed and waiting for our go. At 13:45 hours precisely…" Creed checked his chrono. "…fifty-seven minutes from now. 45th Armoured Division, with accompanying detachments from the Sisters of Our Martyred Lady will form up on their start lines on the northern border of the Elysion Fields to await my signal. On my go our combined armies will drive west from the curtain wall and south-west across Elysion respectively. Our objective is complete annihilation of the enemy's category-A units, which, in the wake of Kasr Stark's destruction roam Elysion unchallenged. I want to draw them into battle."

 _Ambitious_. Rebbeck eyed the map, and the imaginary lines of advance Creed had drawn. Creed however was not finished. His announcement took everybody by surprise.

"Command of Third Guards Division will be assumed by myself. As former Officer Commanding of Eight Brigade I will march with the Lord Castellan's Own once more. Alex?"

"Sir." Rebbeck knew what was coming next. A change in management.

"Alex, you will take over command of One Corps for me. Ensure the rearguard is sufficiently supplied and reinforced by the Astartes. The Navy will handle the evacuation." Placing his still-unlit cigar between his pudgy thumb and forefinger, Creed looked at the faces of his staff. "Be forthwith, gentlemen, time is short. I am for the Kriegan Gates."

Never one for sentiment, Creed's face remained set in stone when first one officer then another brought his right hand up in salute. Rebbeck was the last to do so. Such pride he had in his commanding officer. A true Imperial.

"Gentlemen," Creed growled. "Cadia stands. For the Emperor!"

"Cadia stands. For the Emperor!" Rebbeck heard his voice united with the voices of the other officers. _The Emperor protects…_

* * *

 **Belisarius Cawl's Facility, 12:47**

Standing in front of the display screens in the Archmagos's sanctum, I watched as feed from the servo-skulls played. The little creatures were all over Kraf, giving Cawl a mastermind's view of the battle. Strange yellow aircraft buzzed around Kraf's airspace which had been completely vacant of friendly and enemy air forces not two minutes previously. It intrigued me as to why the newcomers sported such garish paintjobs. It was not to say I wasn't happy. That any relief had showed up at all must have been a tremendous morale boost to the thousands awaiting evacuation. Of course, deep underground and with our present whereabouts unknown it meant little to me personally. But to Aimo, Ral, Peter, Woulter, and the others, it surely seemed like the Emperor himself had sent the ships.

"The descent of angels," Izuru said poetically, next to me.

Folding my arms, I snorted derisively. "Like they give a shit about us. They're just here to engage Zeke and Nathaniel."

"There are civilian transports among them, James." Izuru pointed as one massive vessel, roughly tubular with a pointed prow and four massive engines, lowered herself through the clouds. "A charter vessel if I am not mistaken."

"That's Aimo, Ral, Peter, and the others off then."

"Let us hope you reunite with them soon." Izuru smiled at me.

"Okay, that's happening there…" Aware that Cawl was nearby, I spoke in a hushed voice. "What does he want then?"

Running her tongue across her lower lip, Izuru paid Cawl a glance. Whether the Archmagos noticed was anyone's guess. It was difficult to tell what he was looking at.

"Is he asleep?" I wondered aloud.

"No – ssh! Archmagos Cawl has plotted us a route up from this facility to Arrakis Tower. We are on a subterranean level – sixty-four he said – but we are almost directly below the citadel."

"And – and Arrakis is where he wants us to…?"

"Arrakis houses the archives, where information on Project Genus is stored."

"Uh, the other was…?"

"Tleilax Tower. The Archmagos would have us install the last part of his device that will power the pylons and banish the Immaterium from existence."

"Banish the Immaterium from existence. Did he tell you that?"

"Yes."

"And you believed him!"

"The pylons will close the Eye of Terror. That was their purpose. It will strike a devastating blow to Chaos and give your race and mine a fighting chance against the other horrors in the galaxy."

"Okay, so…" I tried picturing the plan. One with many variables, it seemed unlikely that we would be allowed to waltz up into the first tower, illegally access the archive, walk out then cross to the other tower and fix up Cawl's device. "Can I see a map? Erm, why can't Cawl send one of his Clankers to do this for him?"

"Don't call them…" Impatiently, Izuru shushed me. "Archmagos Dominus. We are ready to proceed with your plan."

Belisarius Cawl's dormant limbs flailed. Instinctively he grabbed his halberd. "Veilwalker!"

"Pardon me, I am Izuru Numerial, in the company of James Larn. We are ready to proceed with your plan."

"Oh. Oh, yes, the lovers. Such a strange union. Never in all my years…" Cawl's feet clacked as they carried him across the floor. "You can never find happiness. Not in life. Even in death your spirits must part."

"Archmagos, we'll follow your guidance. Please show us the way," I said, trying to look humble before him.

"Young Nobody, your impatience is most galling. Has she not taught you the virtue of patience?" Cawl swept around suddenly, his segmented body trailing behind him, almost slamming into me. Completely unaware of this, Cawl continued without the slightest bit of concern that he had nearly trodden on me. "I expected more from a xenos-mentored human."

"She taught me things, Archmagos. Proud to say I've learned a lot from her. Got a good set o' skills both in and out of combat." At that I looked Izuru's way. The swell of pride on her face and admiration in her eyes made my spirits soar. "And after Cadia, I want to continue learning from her."

Izuru dropped her gaze to the floor. The twisted smile she gave made it look as though she was on the verge or bursting into tears; uncharacteristic of her.

"Anyway. I'd like to see a map, Archmagos. Find out our exact position."

"And you shall have it, Young Nobody," Cawl said. Perhaps at his call, all eight of the screens retracted upwards fluidly. The space they left was occupied by a holo-map.

"Sixty-four Subterranean. We are sixty-four floors beneath the citadel's ground floor, and a further thirty-two from the archives in Arrakis Tower."

 _Ninety-six floors. Shit._

"From here to thirty-eight Subterranean you must ascend via a stairwell. From then on can take a service lift to the ground floor. I shall provide information to you over these comm beads." A pair of cable-thin appendages with three-pronged claws on the ends dropped tiny comm beads into our palms. "To answer your question, Young Nobody, I will lend you a loyal servant of mine. Wise is she in the ways of the machine, and shy of conflict she is not."

"Thank you, Archmagos." I bowed my head.

"Be sure to put a Mechanicus-manufactured bolt right between the bugger's eyes. You know who I speak of. Now, be away, young couple."

"Uh, them rifles you got lying around. I asked you before…"

"Take them. Take them! Throne of Terra, they are all wasted down here gathering dust. So much knowledge Humanity is unwilling to pursue. Ignorance! The Imperium is propelled by ignorance, lies, and superstition. No place for scientific minds. Men of innovation!"

Worried at the Archmagos's ranting, I stepped backwards in case of sudden movement. Izuru did the same. "Okay, we're ready?"

"Ready. Let us re-arm."

"Uh, no, just a mo'. We're settling this right now."

"Settling what?" Izuru tilted her head downwards to listen.

I continued, softly enough to not be overheard by the Archmagos who was busying himself with his cogitator. "Whilst those lot are unarmed up there, I want to out the traitor. We do it now or risk getting shot in the back later on."

"I see."

"Can you – can you search their minds? I don't know how it works…"

Sighing, Izuru gathered up a bunch of hair hanging over her ear and scratched the skin underneath. "If needs be I will invade their mental threshold."

"Okay? Right, let's do it."

Aware of the advancing hour, I returned to the commune with Izuru, curtly ordering the four Cadians over to one side of the room, and the other five: Cyrano, Gale, Azar, Lorne, and Borens to sit in a rough semi-circle facing me.

"What's wrong now, James?" Lorne glared. "Ain't no problem, is there? Getting sick o' this. I want fresh air."

"Aw, give it a rest, Highlander." Gale, leaning back on his seat, folded his arms, apparently unconcerned.

"She ain't getting involved, is she?" Azar pointed vaguely in Izuru's direction, without looking at her. Unarmed, like everyone else, Izuru waited in the wings, ready to come forth on my order, and begin laying on the interrogation.

"Nah, just us lads. Right, the short-tack is… one of you blokes been informing for the Inquisitor."

"Throne of Terra." Azar made the sign of the Aquila hastily.

"Pfft, dunno, mate. You got us stumped there…" Both Lorne and Borens looked blankly at me.

"Cyrano, anything to say?"

"I'm the traitor."

The words had not come from Cyrano's mouth, but Gale's. The stunned silence that came afterwards was severed by a _snick_ of a blade being drawn. From the shadows, Izuru came with a knife in her hand and a remorseless look on her face.

"Right, Cyrano, Azar, Highlanders, give us some space. Take your chairs with you too. Gale, stay there. Put your hands on your knees." Pointing a finger over at Izuru, I said, "wait. I'm gonna hear all of this first."

"Aw, he's the traitor, is he?" Lorne said. "The bloody cook's a liar. Let's waste him ri' here ri' now."

"Number ten, Lorne. Only thing we're wastin' here's time."

Drawing my Volg, I clasped both hands in front of me and awaited Gale's confession. Now outed, the big man's eyes, shrewd and squinty, were roving all over the place, mainly in the direction of Izuru and the knife she carried.

"Not no way outta this, mate. Come on, let's have it."

"…I'm – I was… I was an – an informant. I informed on people – families back on Nereus. I told local law enforcers who they were and where they lived… and then – overnight – those families disappeared. It wasn't just the men in the family but the women and the children too." Leaning forwards, Gale fixed me with a hollow, haunted look. "I – I thought I was doing the right thing. Ridding the Imperium of seditious beings. Helping to quell dissent. I mean – for all I knew the seeds of a Chaos cult could have been spreading. I really believed that. But it just went on and on."

"James, there's no such thing as the perfect Imperial citizen who prizes the Emperor above his own life and family. There was nobody that devout on Nereus. It's a myth, a silly myth perpetuated by the likes of Ecclesiarchy, the Inquisition, most of the Imperium's ruling bodies. They spread lies and keep the populace in line through fear, ignorance and superstition. Now, I honestly wanted no more part in it. I was an accessory to obliteration. I wanted to get out from under its shadow and start afresh. I'd help people this time. Keep 'em happy. So, I became a cook in 228 Nerian. I liked being a cook in 228 Nerian. I had authority. I was bossing about Azar, Scurm, and Weld like a proper sergeant."

"Bastard," Olen Azar muttered.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I am for letting myself be drawn back into my old profession." Shame-faced, Gale wrung his hands. "The Inquisitor knew. He knew everything about me. Everything about every citizen living or dead in the Imperium. He said unless I would agree to inform for him, my family would be obliterated."

Pacing quietly, I nodded. "Okay, but why threaten your family. Why didn't he threaten mine, say?"

"With us losing Nereus, the displaced persons were sent to Belis Corona and Haven. I guess the Inquisitor had people stationed there. Throne, he's got people everywhere, James! He himself said that there is one agent for every 150 Imperial citizens in the galaxy! Just – just process that for a moment…"

"Okay, right, so you were telling him what we were all doing. Since Rakka, was it?"

"Yeah, since Rakka. But now that I've told you everything—"

"Nah, you haven't. Did you shoot Keladi?"

"Who?"

"The red-haired girl at the CCS."

"That was an accident." Gale, afraid now, shrugged and shook his head. "I'm – I'm sorry. I wasn't told to do that. All I was supposed to do was inform the Inquisitor of your actions. I'm sorry…"

Holding up a hand to stop Izuru from driving her knife deep inside the cook, I said, "you have told us everything now, Gale. Thanks."

"…Well, my family will be vaporised now." Gale shuffled his feet. "I mean, that's it for them. I've let 'em all down."

"Can we be done wi' this slimy piece o' horseshit now, James?" Lorne, unmoved, drummed his fingers against his chair.

"I'm done with him, so I am." Azar, coldly dismissive, aimed an accusing finger at Gale. "Just leave me with him five minutes. Maybe even six."

"Number one-thousand, all of you." My eyes passing over each man's face, I remained firmly uncompromising. My gaze lingered on Izuru the longest. By rights it should be her doing it. But I wanted it over quickly. Izuru could and probably would make it last hours. We did not have the time.

"You should know, all o' you, that only Nerians get to waste Nerians."

"So, I'll do it." Azar stepped forwards eagerly. "C'mon, James, lemme have a crack at this weasel."

"You'll get back into line, Azar. There'll be no more violence 'ere."

Brass-checking my Volg, I unloaded the chamber then shaved off six slugs from the magazine, leaving only one round remaining. "Supposing if you were no longer around to inform for the Inquisitor. Might he leave your family alone?"

"…Well, it is possible." Gale eyed the Volg. "Just, please promise to give the Inquisitor my regards – right between the eyes."

"'Fraid it won't be from you, no," I said, giving Izuru a warning look to stay away.

"Always were a troublemaker, weren't you?" Gale smiled sadly.

"Yeah. You cooked breakfast for me at Rakka too. You fought well there. Bastion Three-Three, the CCS. Reckon you warrant the quick way out—"

"NO!" Izuru barked. "He killed Keladi."

"Enough! No more violence outta you," I snarled. "This is a private matter."

"It is not."

"Gale, you've got one round in your magazine. You know who it's for. Remember only Nerians get to waste Nerians. You don't want to waste that round 'cause if you do it'll be you and her alone together; I won't give you another round."

Pocketing the loose cartridges, I held the Volg by the barrel and passed the butt to Gale. "Make sense?"

"Yeah. Thanks, James." Gale took the handgun and held it loosely. "Aw, Throne, I don't know about this…"

Clutching his hands to his head, Gale groaned. "Emperor, give me strength to do what must be done."

"S'alright." Bending over Gale, I rubbed his shoulder consolingly. "You want to go somewhere quiet?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Don't try and run. I'll let her loose then. No-one's ever gonna find you after that."

"Thank you, James."

Walking with the slouch of a condemned man, Gale wandered away. Jerking my head at Izuru, I ordered her to follow him and make sure he went through with it.

"I'd have beaten him bloody, betraying us like that," Lorne said cheerfully.

"Eh, he can kiss them fingernails goodbye, so he can," Borens added. "Bolts through his ankles, screws in his toes…"

"Savages, all of you. Be silent now," Cyrano snapped.

"Says the fella wi' the freak-fungus on his face." Lorne pushed himself away from the pillar he was leaning against and made like he was about to throw some hands with Cyrano. A loud _bang_ prevented any scuffle from ensuing. Coming from nearby, the thunderous report brought hands flying up to ears, the noise sapping the fight from the Highlanders. My own ears smarting, I left the frozen gathering and called out softly to Izuru. When no reply was given I swore under my breath and began to run in the direction of the gunshot.

"Izuru, talk to me!" I cried, skidding around a corner and dashing into a vacant chamber. Drawn by the sound of a knife repeatedly plunging inside a torso, a strained cry escaped me when I saw Izuru kneeling over Gale's prone body. Bowling into Izuru, I shoved her off Gale, shouting, "leave the poor man be. He's gone. He can't hurt anyone now!"

The body stirring beneath me prompted Izuru to launch herself at me. "He lied! He murdered her!" she shrieked, brandishing her bloody knife in my face. Still alive, if barely, Gale's right temple bore a red hole where the round had entered. Most of the opposite side of his skull had been blown outwards by the .45 slug which had fragmented inside Gale's head. Little pieces of bloody bone, grey brain matter, and sticky hair were decorating the floor.

"No. Get off!" I shoved back against her, grabbing her wrist for the knife. "This what you want, huh?"

"Yes." Izuru threw her free hand around my neck, wrenching it downwards. "He does not deserve a clean death, the murderer!"

Forcing me to the floor, Izuru drove her blade into Gale's stomach. Immobile, I tried to drag her sideways with me, my outstretched hand scrabbling for the Volg that had fallen beside Gale, completely ignored by Izuru. Fingers brushing the warm barrel, I hooked my forefinger into the trigger guard and pulled the body to me. "Let it go, Izuru," I grunted, elbowing her in the side. Dropping the empty magazine, I fumbled to press the handful of cartridges in, dropping most when Izuru dove into me.

"Don't you dare!"

"Vengeance wanes – that's what you said. What's this, huh?"

Succeeding in loading a single round, I jammed the magazine upwards and unlocked the Volg's slide, chambering it. "Get off! GET OFF!"

Ramming my shoulder against Izuru, I planted a boot upon Gale's neck and aimed. Clamping a finger into my right ear, and my shoulder against my left, I closed my eyes and began to squeeze. Gathering me into her arms, as if I weighed nothing more than a baby, Izuru battered at my wrist. With enough force to make me cry out, Izuru dumped me on my back and knocked my gun hand against the floor, the hard surface connecting with the back of my knuckles painfully. Pressing her forearm against my throat when I would not drop the Volg, Izuru swiped my other hand aside. "Drop it, James. You cannot beat me. Relax. _Relax_. You will only make it harder for yourself. I do not wish to hurt you."

Through my swimming vision, I saw Izuru be inexplicably yanked backwards, as if attached to elastic, and be dangled upside-down by an invisible force.

"Enough, the pair of you!" Shesmet cried, ghosting over the threshold. "By the Collector, you are fighting one another over a corpse!" Propelling herself down to where I lay, Shesmet exploded in my face. "Has madness finally taken hold?"

"What? He's – he's the traitor! He was informing for the Inquisitor."

"All I see there is a dead body, James."

" _Iam furta mure ual!_ " Izuru bawled.

"No doubt you have wanted to do so since we first met," Shesmet retorted smoothly.

"Call him not by that name."

Clenching her fist, Shesmet dropped Izuru. Landing ungainly, Izuru picked herself up, screeched something unintelligible and stormed off.

Rubbing my bruised knuckles gingerly, I glanced up at Shesmet. "She's work, she is."

"The traitor, you say?" Shesmet bent over prostrate, still without touching the floor, and examined Gale's body. "How did you know?"

"He confessed. Said Keladi was an accident. Apparently, he lied about that though. That's why Izuru's a bit out of sorts right now."

"How do you benefit from such a relationship. What do you get out of it? Aside from physical stimulation."

Crossing my legs, I pressed my knuckles against my mouth. "I don't know, I didn't choose it. Didn't choose any of what's happened to me. If I'd had a choice in anything, I'd never have left Jumael."

"Not a healthy relationship then?"

"Dunno. Just glad you're 'ere to break us up, that's all. Thank you, Shesmet."

"I spoke to the Archmagos. He was quite willing to offer you support." Reaching down, Shesmet helped me up. "As am I."

"Hunh. He kept calling Izuru Veilwalker. Bit forgetful, if you ask me."

"Can personal issues be set aside, for now? Events are progressing around us, and we are still idle."

"Yeah, absolutely. We're stocking up on weapons and ammo first then we'll be off."

"I would pass on the Archmagos's compliments to you, James. He lends you his chief Enginseer."

At Shesmet's behest, a tech priest appeared. Clad in a red gown and matching hood, the priestess planted the butt of a long-handled axe, similar to the model Cawl carried, in the floor.

"Okay, what's her designation?" I asked.

"Designation!" The tech-priestess's lower faceplate, comprised of skin grafted onto the metal underneath, pouted unhappily. The two round lenses that held a pair of bright green eyes slanted downwards. "I am Andalusia Van Callet, Enginseer to Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl."

"Well, I'm Sergeant Young Nobody. Nobody of nobodies."

Blinking slowly, the joints in tech-priestess's body whirred. "I heard the emissary refer to you as James. I'm Lusia. Pleased to meet you."

Surprisingly, Lusia stuck out a hand for me to shake.

Bemused, I went to take her hand. "Hello, Lusia."

A sharp bite when I touched the cold metal made me pull my hand back. "Ow!"

"Your pardon, James. The priests are prone to bouts of mischief. Lusia will gladly assist you in your task."

Shaking my stinging hand, I eyed a chunky plasma pistol Lusia had attached to her hip. "Sure she needs the firepower?"

"Frightened of an armed lady, young man?" Lusia smiled. Two mechanical arms, attached to a backpack she wore, pointed in my direction, the claws snapping open and shut.

"Been too many o' those recently," I said, tutting, getting down on my knees and scooping up the cartridges I had dropped. A snaking appendage belonging to Lusia poked me in the arm. In its claw was a single .45 round.

"Omnissiah… you spilled blood in the House of the Machine-God!"

"He did it himself, Lusia. He was a traitor. See, only Nerians get to kill Nerians. Izuru woulda tortured him beforehand."

"…I see. You should know that the presence of xenos within this house is most unusual."

"'Tis a most unusual day, wouldn't you agree, Enginseer?" Shesmet said.

Pocketing the brass, I sucked on my knuckles. _Too many difficult women_ , I thought, wanting to put space between myself and them all. _Now, where's Izuru got to?_

* * *

 **The Citadel, 13:04**

With the contact's vital signs flatlining, Osvat Radu Zeleska put his departure from the Citadel on hold. It could only mean one thing. Young Larn and Izuru Numerial were on to him.

"I welcome thee into my abode…" he smiled, lighting up his third Lho-stick and inhaling the scented smoke. It was satisfying that all he needed to do was put his feet up on his desk and wait for his quarry to come to him. _Why do hard work when others can do it for you?_

Flicking idly through the surveillance network he commanded, Zeleska watched the skirmishes happening around the Citadel's ruined northern boundary with interest. An odd hodgepodge of Skitarii and Interior Guard were currently engaging Chaos infantry amongst the bombed-out curtain wall. In formation, as if on manoeuvres, the Interior Guard were unleashing disciplined volleys from their lasguns, cutting down the enemy in swathes. _As if their little display of fortitude will change the entire campaign._ Zeleska smiled smugly. _Pathetic little beings. Cadia was lost weeks ago._ Of course, the Cadians, a stubborn mob of child-soldiers, would not see it that way; choosing instead to die locked in glorious combat – as they would put it. _Still, the Imperium runs on their sacrifice. A few million dead here and there matter not to the Inquisition at the end of the day. Not even the Imperial Fists and their Phalanx can turn the tide now._

Opening his private comm channel, Zeleska called for his two enforcers. "Lenz. Argus. My office."

"My Lord." Both men, on entering Zeleska's office, bowed. The two thugs, near-fanatically devoted to Zeleska's cause were in garb similar to the Inquisitor, of course with less finery. Their blue-grey jerkins did not possess the finely-cut trim or the finery that the Inquisitor's did. _Subordinates should know their place_ , Zeleska thought, letting the two stand there; awaiting his command.

"Lenz, take a Sparrow Hawk team with you and fly up to the airstrip in the Korat district. You know who you are looking for. Non-lethal weaponry only."

"My Lord." Lenz bowed his shaved head and retreated.

"Argus, take another team and standby to reinforce the Interior Guard. They say they can hold their ground. I do not trust them."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Leave two scions to guard my chambers. That will be all."

Settling down with a fresh bottle of amasec, one he had taken from the lord castellan's personal store, Zeleska settled in to wait for his prey to appear on surveillance. All approaches to the Citadel were covered. There was no way in unless he permitted it. Perhaps it was overconfidence on his behalf, but Zeleska felt a nudge of restlessness. The xenos was a shrewd, ruthless being, and if she could break out of the Citadel, then sure as the Emperor resided over the waning days of Humanity, she would find ingress.

Pressing a palm underneath his desk, Zeleska waited for the scanner to read his print. Out slid a long drawer containing a bolt pistol with gold engravings, a Rosarius, and a power sword. Opening a silk-lined box, Zeleska picked out the first bolt and began to load his magazine.

* * *

 **Kasr Kraf Airbase, Solarus District, 13:09**

The famed stoicism of the Cadian Shock Troopers had been supplanted by a bubbling, near-childish merriness, Joe Herle noted. So unlike their usual grim persona, many Cadians were jumping up and down, singing, hugging one another, with many even crying. With the Space Marine aircraft overhead, and the enemy nowhere to be seen, it seemed like divine intervention had chosen to happen on Cadia. From where he sat on top of the overturned track, above where Aimo, Ral, and Tom were, Joe could look out on the vast open spaces were the runways were and see the joviality of the soldiers and civilians. Huge groups had formed around the few chaplains that were present on the airbase. The officers themselves led mass prayer gatherings. _Almost as if the Emperor himself has returned_ , Joe thought, making the sign of the Aquila. _Strike me down for thinking such a thing_.

Grinning and nodding whenever he caught a Cadian's eye, Joe noticed one single soldier, a slim figure in olive grey, not taking part in the celebrations. _Funny. Has the poor fellow been struck deaf and blind?_ Letting the others know he was heading off a short way, Joe planted his feet upon the turret and jumped down, apologising when he landed amongst a gaggle of Cadians who were singing hymns.

"What's bit you, fella?" Joe called out in a friendly tone.

The young soldier did not look up. Unwashed and smelly, he kept his head lowered and his hands in his lap. It took Joe all of a second, looking hard at him to recognise the abnormal youth of the man.

"…Peter?"

Neither moving nor even blinking, Peter's gaze was fixed upon the ground, a perilously bleak and distant stare aging him far above his fifteen years.

"Peter, where's W—"

Joe broke off. He knew the answer before the question had even passed his lips. Clutching at his contracting throat, Joe pressed a balled fist against his mouth. "Oh, my god…" he whispered, jamming his teeth together to prevent the gasps from surfacing. "Peter, I'm so sorry."

That young Peter had sunken into a state of near-catatonia overturned Joe's stomach. Collapsing next to the boy, Joe cast about, realising Peter and himself were alone with their grief.

"Come here, lad." Joe hugged Peter to his breast, struggling dearly to keep the iron in his soul and not break down over the son's loss. In another's embrace, the hard, stone-cold shell encasing Peter fell away, and he wailed, long and loud, striking Joe's arms with his small fists, forcing out all the repressed anguish he held inside him. Keeping a tight hold on Peter as the strength drained from the lad's blows, Joe eyed the Cadians with a newfound hostility. _A fifteen-year-old boy without anyone to turn to, and you all ignore him as if he doesn't exist to you?_

Taking Peter under his wing, Joe led him back to the track and sat him down next to Aimo.

"Peter!" Tom Carillo, lying on his front, exclaimed. "Where Woul—"

Joe placed a finger to his lips and gave Tom a black look.

Knowing better, Ral uncorked his canteen and gave the last few drops to Peter. Aimo took Peter's hand in his own and held on to it.

"There's our ride out of here," Ral said morosely, pointing up at a gargantuan charter vessel, which looked to be on approach to the airbase.

"Try the stretcher tactic again?" Tom suggested.

"Yeah. We're gonna need some stretchers first. And another bloke to carry one end…"

It took some scavenging but two folded stretchers were found leaning against a hangar, right beside a very long line of covered bodies. Without the facilities to bury the dead, they had been covered in groundsheets and left.

It was unlike the Cadians to offer aid to soldiers outside their own units, though Ral's declaration to a handful of nearby Cadians that he was a medic and needed help bearing stretcher-cases was swallowed without suspicion. Only one extra man was needed, much to the Cadian's disappointment. It just so happened that the volunteer Ral brought along had shoulder-guards with the number 37 painted on them.

"Oi, just a mo', he's thirty-seventh!" Joe pointed angrily at the Cadian's scratched insignia.

"Why, what's the problem?" The thirty-seventh, purple-eyed and unshaven, replied.

"A thirty-seventh commissar threatened some of our lads, stole our M/T and shot at us. All in one day too!"

"Your parent brigade's in Kasr Jark," Ral said. "How did you get down here?"

"Uh, my commissar is over there…" Thirty-Seven pointed roughly in the direction of the big charter ship. "Anyway, my name is Ti—"

"Fucking commissars, that's all we need," Aimo said. "Come on, Thirty-Seven, let's have me on a stretcher. You too, Tom. Might have to place you arse-up though."

Tossing Thirty-Seven a disparaging look, Ral got into position in front of Aimo's stretcher. "Peter, can I have you behind me, please?"

Knowing only the gentlest of manners would persuade Peter to assist physically, Joe went and had a quiet word with the boy. With the grace of a half-charged automaton, Peter went and stood behind Aimo's stretcher without so much as a mumble of acknowledgement.

"You drop me, Thirty-Seven, you'll be the first to get it." Tom chuckled. "Never thought I'd see a Cadian bending over for me. Ha-ha!"

"Ready back there?" Joe looked back at Thirty-Seven who nodded. "Okay, one, two, three, heave…"

* * *

I **mperial Naval Transport _Ionia_ , 13:16**

The first person to board the IMT _Ionia_ after she touched down upon her eight fat landing claws was a naval transport officer. The ship's first officer, Gartlan Mallis, was there to meet him. In as curt a manner as was humanly possible, the NTO said, "be prepared to take on as many troops as you can, regardless of weight limits."

"Well, yes, there certainly seems to be quite the gathering outside. Umm… is this a capitulation?"

The NTO looked shocked. "Don't even mention the word. It's merely a temporary movement of troops. Can I speak to the captain?"

"Uh, yes, sir. This way."

Dumping the brusque NTO with _Ionia's_ captain, Mallis left the bridge and went back down to the ship's portside airlock. Open to the wind, the wide mouth was in the last stages of extending its boarding ramp down to the thick, snaking lines of Imperial guardsmen waiting below.

 _Throne of Terra, there's thousand of them._ Mallis gulped, frightened that there would be a stampede the minute the ramp had fully lowered. Despite under orders not to leave the vessel's premises, Mallis disembarked, his curiosity arising. _It looks like a general evacuation_ , he thought. _They can't be abandoning Cadia, can they?_

Very near the head of the waiting lines, Mallis came face to face with a commissar who had taken it upon herself to guard the embarkation point with five other guardsmen. A bolt pistol was holstered on her hip along with a truly horrid chainsword; its sight Mallis instantly reviled. In full khaki uniform and armed with bayonet-equipped lasguns, the Cadians looked to be the sole functioning military unit among the grubby tide of displaced personnel. And grubby appeared to be something of an understatement. Mallis saw men without helmets, rifles, body armour, jackets, trousers – some even in their underwear or barefoot. Bedraggled, oil-stained faces peered at his clean uniform in wonderment, wondering who this spotless saviour was.

That the commissar was taking no action against the general unruliness of the guardsmen troubled Mallis. If discipline had really broken down that far then why didn't they attempt to force entry to the ship? Five bayonets were little deterrent to such numbers. Something then occurred to Mallis. Perhaps the evacuees were queuing of their own accord? No officers and very few sergeants were present to keep order, but in general there was no pushing or shoving, no queue-jumping, just patience.

"Commissar." Mallis nodded.

"Captain." The commissar returned the cool greeting. Expecting a nightmarish mask of scar tissue and augments, Mallis got his second surprise when the commissar was young, female, and blonde. Attractiveness notwithstanding, the commissar bore a large a large scar down her left cheek and surveyed the waiting guardsmen with cold, calculating eyes.

"Oh, I'm not the captain. He's still aboard, Commissar."

"What is your name?"

"Gart Mallis, Ma-am. I'm Ionia's first officer." Mallis smiled politely. "We – we weren't expecting so many to be boarding."

"What did they tell you?"

"Nothing."

"Good."

"Good?"

It was the commissar's turn to smile politely. "Safety in ignorance."

 _Alright then._ Mallis waved to the nearest file. "We'll get started."

As the troops and smattering of civilians among them boarded, Mallis could not help but be touched by the relief expressed by their new passengers. With the exception of the Cadians, who were discontent that they were being forced to flee their home, the majority boarded in good spirits.

"Thank the Emperor we're on an Imperial ship," somebody uttered. Some of the soldiers were even more demonstrably appreciative: they fell on their knees and kissed the deck. As far as they were concerned they were as good as home.

"Where are you from?" an exuberant soldier asked as he passed Mallis in the airlock.

"Haven."

"It still holds?"

"When we left two weeks ago it was."

"Make way! Stretcher-bearers coming through," somebody cried.

 _Stretchers?_ Mallis hurried down the ramp, determined that Ionia would not cram herself full with wounded when she could take so many more able-bodied. Of a similar mind, the commissar had halted the flow, preventing the two stretchers from mounting the ramp.

"No room for stretcher cases, I'm afraid," Mallis said apologetically. "Sorry, lads."

"Ma-am! Ma-am, it's me." A Cadian that was bearing one end of a stretcher raised an arm and waved at the commissar.

"Private, where have you been?" the commissar, familiar with the guardsman, waved him over.

"I can't, Ma-am." The guardsman gave a flustered shrug. He was still holding onto the stretcher half.

"Stretcher-bearers, over here. Quickly now!"

Intrigued at this new party, and the commissar's interest in it, Mallis did his best to eavesdrop.

"Well I never," he remarked, when both stretcher cases turned out to be perfectly capable of walking – or at least one of them was. A blind soldier in olive grey and another who had been wounded in his backside were now about to face the wrath of the commissar. But, it seemed more surprises were due. As a colleague of the commissar's was with the stretcher party, she was sympathetic to their plight. _A commissar who compromises? Never would have thought it possible._

Duly, the wounded and their companions were let aboard. One of them even thanking Mallis for not sending them all the way back up the line. Blinking, Mallis shook his head then ordered the embarkation to resume.

Now that the Imperial Fists had established temporary control of the skies above the airbase, the little ships could set down. Many, despite lacking the facilities to make a touch-down, were waved in towards the bunched-up line of tracks and lorries which offered a crude means for the ships to pull up alongside and take on passengers. Gunfire and shelling were now audible again, with some of the latter making direct hits on the not-so-far-away boundary wall, the jarring _crump_ and tremors from the shockwave buzzing through the crowds, causing a great deal of unease. Mallis himself was no exception. He had never been so near to a battle before and decided that he did not want to get any closer.

* * *

 **Belisarius Cawl's Facility, 64-Subterranean, 13:29**

As previously demonstrated on numerous occasions, Izuru was able to disappear and reappear at will, and if she did not want to be found then she would never be found. Giving up on finding her, I approached the Archmagos and asked for permission to take the rifles, to which he kindly offered ammunition to go with them. Then, bringing the others down into Cawl's sanctum, we set about sorting through the collection of autoguns, lasguns, shotguns, grenade launchers, pistols, and other ordnance of Cawl's invention. Passing out a pair of short-barrelled Ferro-Pattern lascarbines Lorne handed me, I gave them to Gunnel and Kasabo and spread a bandolier of grenades across a table surface I had cleared, laying a Grapo grenade pistol next to its ammunition. Sealed in airtight containers, every rifle, pistol, and grenade round was in pristine condition, having never been exposed to the open air or even loaded into magazines; and Belisarius Cawl was letting us have it all, or at least as much as we could carry comfortably.

 _Hope you don't blow up in my face,_ I thought, setting down the red Kazalak I had examined before next to the Grapo. Lorne had chosen a Molota .30-calibre stubber with a clubfoot stock and was sorting cartridges inside the big 75-round magazine.

"So, your girl got any tips? I never fought a fucking Inquisitor before."

"Mate, with any luck we won't have to," I replied. "Izuru will be the one going toe-to-toe with him."

"I won't go up against an Inquisitor," Gunnel, paling at the thought, stammered. "Their training is second to none."

"Aw, you'd know about that, would ya, Wetpants?" Lorne leered. "Oh, 'ello…" He spotted the raven-haired phantom behind the two service troopers.

"Give us a mo', lads," I said.

"'Aven't you had enough yet?" Lorne snorted, picking up his weapon and ammunition and heading off. Recoiling at Izuru's re-emergence, Gunnel and Kasabo scuttled away after Lorne, quite terrified of her.

With care, I worked my eight-inch blade along the plastic material, unsealing the Red Rifle's corresponding ammunition. I named it that because of the colour of the characters on the rifle's tangent sights. With all previous Kazalak's I had seen possessing white numerals, this one, strangely, had red numbers, marking it as unique.

"I'm not fighting you any more, Izuru," I said flatly, starting on an empty magazine. "I'm not strong enough to throw some hands with you every time we butt heads. Thought we was past that point now…"

In gloomy silence, Izuru came around to me and fell to her knees. "Denounce me, I am no longer in control of my urges. I am too prone to bouts of violence…"

"Izuru, get up. I need your help with the ammo."

"I would offer apology before further steps are taken."

"Look, just get up. This is beneath us, this is. I accept your apology." Irritated by Izuru humbling herself, I gave her my left hand. "That's it. Stand up on your feet. You're the Warrior Woman. You don't bow to no one."

"I took leave of common sense—"

"Yeah, I don't give two shits about what happened with Gale. We're kitting-up now. I want your help sorting things out."

"If you would allow me…"

"What?"

"Your hand."

Again, giving Izuru my hand I sighed when she kissed the scraped knuckles. "Yes, you're a violent person. But you're also a kind and loving mother."

Making the eyes of a wounded beast, Izuru touched my cheek with her fingertips. "Thank you, James."

"You're two sides of a coin. Think of yourself as that."

"But the probability of the toss…"

"Nah, metaphorical."

Placing my hand upon her breast, Izuru held it there then moved it down to her belly.

"You're special, you are." I grinned. " _Fhirin_."

Possessing little in the way of lighting, the tight stairwell rose so far up into darkness that even the bright white beam of Lusia's AdMech-issue torch could not penetrate the depths. There was something eerie about a never-ending passage, in this case the stairwell. However many times the Archmagos's workers had cleaned it, it was still bleak and lonely. _A life without sunlight. I just might go mad._ What I admitted was probably the truth.

Indebted to the AdMech, we were now re-equipped and replenished, our guns and stomachs supplied with sustenance. _Well, this is it. We're about to give the Inquisitor one rude wake-up call._

Nodding at Izuru, who was immediately behind me, I couldn't disguise the excitement of the upcoming contact. Armed with a sword forged by Belisarius Cawl's own hand and a Roga .458-calibre combat rifle with low-power optics, Izuru's level gaze passed a silent wish for good fortune on to me. _May your gods watch over you too,_ I winked, hoping to get a confident smile out of her. Focus and cold-bloodedness had replaced warmth and compassion, leaving her a high-functioning killer; perfect for what we were about to do. Behind her, Cyrano, Azar, the Cadians, and bringing up the rear; the Highlanders.

 _For what we are about to receive._

63-Subterranean came and went. Only 25 more to go before the service lift. Cawl's scratchy voice in both mine and Izuru's ear, reminders that we would be coming above ground in the heart of the Citadel, excited and terrified me. Move fast, kill without hesitation, Izuru had briefed. Every being you encounter in the Inquisitor's lair is a potential threat. Neutralise it before you lose the initiative. The violence of action is to our advantage. Though our numbers are small, we wield surprise as our most potent weapon. Squander it not.

The illusion I had of complete surprise led me to almost give the game away when Shesmet, completely inverted, dropped down into the centre of Lusia's torchbeam. Swearing, I slammed a hand against my body armour, over where my heart was. I had almost opened fire.

"So, you're backing us up after all then," I blurted, nursing my smeared pride.

"Oh, I'll come and go as I please," Shesmet said mysteriously.

Checking back on the others, who were crowding the stairwell below, I lowered my Kazalak. "Alright, just don't get in our way."

"Fare thee well." Shesmet shot upwards, outstripping Lusia's torch.

"Who was that?" one of the Cadians asked.

"Lusia." Watching the gap between the steps below me, I tapped the priestess upon the arm. "Let's go."

As if I didn't have enough worries down there, with everyone's safety on my mind. Now Shesmet was involving herself. What higher powers did she serve? Was her interest solely in the Inquisitor, or had she been the one to clue the Archmagos in to the pylon's true purpose?


	45. Chapter 44

**The Kriegan Gates, Solarus District, 13:19**

The news that a sizeable relief force had arrived in atmosphere and was working doggedly to lift troops off eased the strain on Simon Corta's nerves. His main concern now was removing C Company's presence from the line and bringing them all to an evacuation point. The damning fact that was the lack of subalterns in 8 Brigade made it unlikely he would be authorised to do so however. Selfish though it seemed, Corta wanted above all to live. If the Cadians wanted to die for the Emperor defending their home then let them. Cadia was not his problem; survival was.

Then, something happened that not a man among them expected. With spirits on the rise, Corta was all set to begin quietly removing his sixteen men and drive them out on the Corvo which Arrigo had parked in the shadow of the wall when, inexplicably, a general officer arrived. The announcement invoked such a display of overt goodwill in 8 Brigade that Corta, bemused, had to leave his firing position to go see who was causing such a stir.

"It is the lord castellan!" a Cadian whispered to his friend.

"The lord castellan has come."

"We are saved."

"Praise the Emperor!"

 _General Creed?_ Nonplussed, Corta looked on from a corner of the brigade's command post as the lord castellan himself, swathed in a thick overcoat that fitted over a pair of laspistols holstered at his waist and a shining breastplate upon his chest, swept in. In lieu of a large retinue, as was customary for general officers, Creed had brought with him a single naval liaison officer in grey fatigues, a blind Astropath, and a Kasrkin bodyguard. Smartly, the officers, NCOs and other ranks all stood to attention, Corta quickly following suit. Frowning at the breach in protocol, Corta did not salute the general as every other man was doing. _Do the Cadians really still salute in the field?_ He wondered.

"Colonel Glumen." Creed shook the colonel's hand, a steely look in his eye.

"Good afternoon, sir. The Emperor smiles on us this day," Glumen, nodding, replied.

"Indeed, it is a good afternoon; a young afternoon." Creed turned to the men of 8 Brigade and surveyed them. "I still recognise a lot of you from my days as a brigade OC – good! The Emperor calls on each and every one of you to perform his or her service on this afternoon of afternoons."

The sole outsider in the room, Corta looked down uncomfortably when Creed's eyes passed over him. He had no business being there. This was a Cadian fight, for men of the Guards divisions, not for a lowly 2nd lieutenant of some category-C infantry company.

"Know this, defenders of Cadia. There has never been a time before now that I have needed you more. At this very moment the Emperor's Angels are descending from the heaven's and committing themselves to other fronts. This – the Elysion Fields – will be your front; a Cadian front. It will be your bayonets that plunge into the black heart of the enemy who roams the western plains, tainting our home with his chaotic stench. Gentlemen, ready your weapons, fill your heart with fire, and offer a prayer to the Emperor for guidance. Today, Cadia stands!"

"Cadia stands!" the Cadian echoed. Corta alone kept silent when 8 Brigade let loose a series of hurrahs for their general. Convening with the colonel's staff then, Creed made several sweeping gestures over the map, showing the directions of troop movements. His spoken orders were lost to Corta, who was not privy to the O-group's discussion.

 _Oh, God, we're attacking, aren't we?_ Corta thought, growing anxious at the increasingly bombastic gestures given by the general. He wanted no part of whatever master plan Creed had just revealed.

"Come forth, Lieutenant." Colonel Glumen beckoned, noticing Corta hovering nearby. "Your company stands ready to do the Emperor's work?"

"Colonel, can I speak to the general please?" Corta said.

"You will address me first, Lieutenant. Do you forget the chain of command?" Glumen glowered.

"Is that the subaltern from Bastion One?" Creed barked suddenly, pausing his briefing. "Tell me your company stands ready for battle."

"Sir, um, as an off-worlder I would request that command of the composite company be handed over to a Cadian officer…"

"General, this officer does not display the correct level of enthusiasm an Imperial Guardsman should," Glumen said. "I request permission to institute summary execution."

"At a time like this, Colonel?" Creed tutted. "No, Lieutenant, you are _not_ excused. Your unit will be on my left flank. We are down on able-bodied subalterns as is. Return to your company and await your orders."

That was that. An order from a general officer, and the lord castellan of Cadia at that, was not to be disobeyed. No amount of whining would change it.

"What's happening, sir?" Len Wharton asked when Corta returned to the tiny space C Company was squeezed in between two 8 Brigade platoons. The nervous, weary faces of Arrigo, Colvin, Rhidian, and the others could not have looked less enthusiastic.

"We're attacking." Corta shrugged. "General Creed's got some sort of plan. Don't know what."

"Sir, can't we… 'cause we're not Cadians…" Arrigo gnawed on a fingernail in agitation.

"No, Arrigo, I'm sorry. I don't think we're walking away from this one. Just be ready all of you, okay?"

This set-piece battle Creed looked to be pushing for worried Corta. Nathaniel's presence was a given, as well as other horrors the Eye expelled from its bowels. _Throne, let me see these boys through. They do not deserve this fate,_ Corta prayed. Not normally given to praying, he willed his inner being to call upon the Emperor. _Is he listening? Does he care?_

Nothing but silence, punctuated only by the rumble of long-range artillery and spattering of small arms, was conveyed to Corta. In a moment of desperation, Corta contemplated casting himself from the walls to save him the sight of his few remaining men lying trampled and forgotten among the bodies of Zeke and the Cadians. God, there were so many of them. How could any one person stand the horrific sight? The stench?

Keeping C Company in a composite platoon, Corta arranged them around him and Wharton, with the Corvo, driven by Arrigo and Colvin, following on just behind. True to his word, General Creed's headquarters was directly on Corta's right flank, actually Corporal Vassella's right flank. Her company-sized platoon was around ninety men. It was roughly the same with Corporal Denali and Corporal Salveron's platoons, which were on Corta's left flank. This rough 300-strong force, though considerable on the manpower, was equipped only with small-arms. _M-36s and .338s against Nathaniel…_ Corta mused. _We'll have no chance._ The Corvo was not going to be putting out any admirable rate of fire either, not with the pittance of 106-millimetre rounds it carried.

The small blot of olive grey, drowned in the sea of mustard khaki battledress facing the corpse-littered flats of the Elysion Fields, waited for the go. To the south, in the far distance, one-man Titans stomped up to their start lines. North of 8 Brigade, a few tanks backing up a smoke-belching super-heavy, turned their engines over.

Standing by, fifty yards behind the vanguard companies, which had yet to disperse into combat formation oddly, Corta rose up from where he and Wharton were squatting in the stunted grass and looked over at Creed's headquarters. Ringed by watchful Kasrkin bodyguards, Creed was speaking into the bagged handset attached to the vox the naval liaison carried on his back. _Conferring with air support?_ Corta hoped. He had yet to be supported by friendly aircraft at all during his tour. C-Company just hadn't been important enough to warrant air cover.

"Stinks around here," Rhidian said. He had tied a grey scarf around his lower face to combat the smell.

"Put a cigarette up your nose, mate," Wharton grunted.

"Ain't got none…"

"Aw, you owe me." Wharton dug a packet of cigarettes out of the large hip pocket on his flak jacket and threw them over to Rhidian. "Pilfered 'em from the Cadians up in the curtain wall. Way I see it, they owe us big too."

"Still haven't forgiven 'em for lighting us up?"

"Nah, mate. Impossible. Cadians are our enemy. Zeke's just an old adversary. We understand each other. Cadians, nah I don't understand any of 'em. Bunch o' khaki-clad twats—"

"Wharton, is your set working?" Corta asked.

Wiggling his shoulders, Wharton adjusted the straps of his vox-carrier. "Well, yeah it's working, sir. Just can't talk to anyone."

In a gentle tone unfitting for an officer to be addressing an NCO with, Corta chuckled. "Well, thanks for hanging on to it."

"I wasn't gonna drop it, sir. Next thing I know, some commissar melts outta the earth and caps me in the back o' the head."

"There won't be commissars, Wharton. I won't let them…" Corta muttered determinedly. _Let them try and execute one of my own._

With the flag of Cadian 8 Brigade removed from atop the gatehouse, it was brought down by a standard-bearer and unfurled in the midst of Creed's headquarters for all to see.

 _A nice aiming point…_ Corta remarked. _I guess tradition plays a big part in the Guards divisions. Prestigious, pompous lot._

His dim view of the overt display of the Cadian colours was not shared by the Cadians themselves, who began a collective rendition of a war-hymn at Colonel Glumen's behest.

"Are they singing?" Wharton worked a finger inside the ear not covered by his Rascal headset. "These Cadians…"

"Fuck the singing. Who the hell are they?" Rhidian, two cigarettes stuffed inside his nostrils, pointed over at Creed's headquarters. His attention was snatched by a trio of extravagantly-attired women who had flown over the broken ramparts and landed gracefully a short distance behind Creed's position. All three wore golden plate armour, similar to the model worn by Marines but slim-fitting with studded red corsets and white trim. Two wore ornate jump packs and had hair the colour of untainted snow. The third, dark-haired, had wings sprouting from her armour and wore a large Iron Halo.

Fascinated by the three strange women, Corta glassed them with his binoculars. "They're Sisters…"

"Ain't no sisters I've ever seen, sir," Wharton snorted. "Do we bow too?"

At the Sisters' approach, the men in Creed's headquarters got down on their knees. Creed himself did too but made sure he was the last to do so.

"Leave it, Wharton," Corta said. "None of our business."

Still drawn to the strange aura the three gave off, Corta found the winged Sister and continued to stare through his glasses at her. Every man in Brigade Headquarters seemed in awe of her and her acolytes, though Creed alone met her eye and appeared by far the most at ease, despite her towering height and commanding presence. _What are they called again – Sororitas?_

Quite captivated, Corta jumped when a loudhailer screamed, "THE LORD CASTELLAN'S OWN WILL ADVANCE!"

"Bloody hell, that scared the shit out of me," Rhidian laughed. "Are we – are we rolling?"

"Yeah, looks like it."

 _Couldn't have announced our intentions better there,_ Corta thought dryly.

That Sister was still in conference with Creed though. Watching her, Corta saw rose petals falling from her armour. Though human at a glance, there was something quite otherworldly about her. Corta wondered what her name was, and why she elicited such a submissive reaction from the veteran Cadians.

"Mister Corta?"

"Sorry, Wharton, what?" Corta tracked the Sister as she spread her wings and leapt into the air, flanked by her acolytes.

"We're moving, sir."

Tucking his glasses away, Corta spun his forearm."Okay, Colvin, start her up. Follow on behind us. Watch your dispersion."

Pushing aside the image of the woman in gold, Corta signalled Vassella's platoon to spread out, and sent Rhidian, whom he had on hand as a runner, to carry his orders over to Denali and Salveron.

On the furthest flanks, the tanks had begun to roll. To the south, the Knights staggered forwards, their top-heavy bodies lurching. As if on parade, the ordered battalions of The Lord Castellan's Own – a sea of sharpened bayonets – began to march.

"They gonna be doing this all day?" Wharton asked, irritated at the growing murmur of the war-hymn the Cadians were delivering.

"Well, look on the bright side, Wharton. At least Zeke will be shooting at them instead of us."

"Hunh, yeah. Let the Cadians take the fire today. I'm sick of getting swept under the mat."

The hum of the Corvo's engine behind him, Corta kept to a brisk pace, Wharton at his shoulder, taking pains to avoid stepping on any Zekes or Cadians killed during the earlier fights around the curtain wall. Slowly creeping away from the protection of the curtain wall, the men and women in C and R Company hunched low over their rifles and lasguns. Those with bayonets fitted them over their weapon's muzzles, expecting a close assault.

"Anything?" Corta whispered to Wharton.

"Nothing, sir."

 _Why am I whispering?_ The Cadians were making enough of a racket as it was. Any attempt at a surprise attack the Cadians had ignored in favour of belting out praises to the Emperor in song form.

"What's this parade-ground tot?" Wharton wondered aloud.

"Alright, quiet now."

Silencing Wharton, Corta signalled for noise discipline, even though the ridiculous singing made it redundant to do so. Surprisingly, R Company obeyed him.

Bright jet trails drew lines across the bleeding sky; swarms of drop-pods falling from orbit. Not knowing if they were friendly or enemy, Corta paid the tiny burning objects no attention. He had eyes only for the black murk on the horizon.

Drifting across the plains, borne by the evil of Chaos, swelling clouds had found residence. Flashes of long-range artillery, firing tens of kilometres away, lit up the thick columns, the extreme distance lent a pause between flashes and reports. Orbital strikes turned the sky orange, filling it with fire and vaporised chunks of earth, men, and materiel. Fighters barrelled overhead, dog-fighting with their enemy counterparts. To Corta, it truly seemed like he was marching straight into the apocalypse.

* * *

 **Valkyrie 229, Korat District, 14:03**

Sporadic rifle-fire slapped along the right flank of Hugh Waldo's immobile Slick, each hit the sound of a hammer pounding a nail into the armour plate. Having touched down ahead of him, Andrew Seroy's Slick was unloading its cargo; the portside gunner and crew chief kicking out the ammunition boxes to the armoured cavalrymen of 1 Brigade, whilst the starboard gunner worked to keep the distant Zekes' heads down with his 25-millimetre door gun. Starved of ammunition, the cavalrymen tore through the protective wrapping of the crates, with rounds snapping over their heads, and reloaded. With their mounts rendered unserviceable by non-stop contact with the enemy, 1 Armoured Cavalry Brigade were reduced to conducting a fighting retreat across the Kolarak Plains on foot all the way to the eastern curtain wall, where 1 AC intended to make a stand.

"Five-Three, I'm clear."

Blasting dust into the eyes of the cavalrymen, Seroy lifted off. His outbound flight attracted bursts of tracer, accurate enough to score hits.

"Five-Three, you took some fire then when you lifted off. Is everything okay?"

"Affirm, Five-Seven, we've been hit. They missed the engines, pal, we're okay up here."

Switching to crew comms, Waldo spoke hurriedly to Russ Reath. "Come on, Russ, Irv. Get the ammunition out. We're sitting squat out here!"

"Waldo, I'm going to roll in, punch off two rockets on Zeke. I can see he's getting frisky down there. 1 AC's just popped a red smoke. That LZ is now closed, copy?"

"Got a clean hold, Hugh!" Russ said.

"Roger, pulling out."

Red smoke curled underneath the Slick as Waldo dropped his nose and banked sharply away from the green tracer-fire that arced up from the ground. The rolling horde of madmen, a wine-stain of brown upon the landscape, would soon be within assaulting range of the fragmented infantry and cavalry units that had had their backs shattered during the retreat across the plains. Having to face that lot held no allure for Waldo, none whatsoever. _How lucky_ _that I can just up and fly away._ Guilt reined in any selfish thoughts though. Guilt at abandoning anyone when he could take the quick way out curbed the desire for self-preservation.

Both Waldo's and Seroy's Slick now carried a pair of Mk. 14 air-to-surface missiles that were fitted to the two rails underneath each wing; bolted on by the overworked techs at the airstrip that served as a secondary to Kraf Airbase, just east of the Citadel. Korat, like Solarus, was jam-packed with Guardsmen, Navy, and smatterings of refugees, all looking for a way out of the bubbling cauldron they were squeezed in to. With Zeke barrelling across the final stretches of the Kolarak Plains and about to throw himself at the curtain wall, the evacuation points were in danger of being overrun. And, so far, there had not been a single Space Marine aircraft in orbit above Korat protecting the troops on the ground.

Twin smoke trails from Seroy's missiles formed fingers in the sky, ending with the explosions on the ground, one after the other.

"Target suppressed," Seroy said flatly.

"Yeah, not for long though."

"Contact!" Arun Ovile said. "Four chains of Caterans, bearing zero five-four. Speed three-zero-zero."

"Fighters?" Waldo spied the large blip that had appeared on his fire control radar. _Close formation. Interesting._

"Same number. Their heading takes them over Korat Airbase."

"Roge."

"Crow Five-Three, be aware, Korat is being raided. Suggest we bug out to the north and swing back around the west of the Citadel. That'll put us behind the bastards."

"Wilco, Five-Seven. Set heading, zero one-seven. We're going NOE."

Opening his throttle, Waldo lowered his ceiling and hugged the ground with Seroy. At such low altitude they could sneak away from the incoming formation, hopefully undetected.

A harsh blip in Waldo's ears burst his bubble of optimism. "Five-Three, I'm being tracked."

Two 'hats' had appeared at the seven o'clock position on Waldo's radar warning receiver. Interceptors.

"Yep, two Voss Lightnings just peeled off from the main formation," said Arun.

"Letting them out to play…" Waldo muttered. "Five-Three, maintain speed and heading."

"Roge."

"You got your countermeasures?"

"Affirm."

"Range is four klicks. Speed six-hundred."

 _Time to impact, twenty-four seconds,_ Waldo that the Zeke interceptors needed to be breathing down his neck. They could fire their Mk.16s now and be done with it. Or would they close into gun range? Maybe toy with their slower targets first.

"Coming up on a valley. Adjust your heading to zero three-one."

Dipping his starboard wing, Waldo touched his rudder pedals. Both Slicks were literally skimming the grass as they entered the wide valley.

"Standing by with countermeasures," Arun said.

"Wait…"

 _Seventeen seconds_.

"Five-Seven. Five-Three. My radar's just picked up an unknown falling from orbit. Too large for a projectile. Too fast for a fighter."

Diverting his concentration from the Lightnings, Waldo used up a second to check his own radar. _Could be a destroyed ship breaking through atmo?_

"Not a ship. It's following us," Seroy said, sounding slightly more on edge than he normally was.

"Focus on the fighters. Forget the unknown." Waldo too was nearing the limit of his coolness. The complete lack of information regarding what was following them made his palms sweat beneath his flying gloves.

A warble in Waldo's ears announced the blossoming trail of the Mk. 16s, which were in the air and bearing down upon their targets.

"Break!" he cried, throwing his Slick over to port, whilst Seroy went to starboard. "Arun, deploy flares on my mark."

"Shit." Arun's voice went cold.

A terrific _whump_ of air physically pushed at the Slick, buffeting it in the manner of extreme turbulence. "What is it, Arun?"

"Emperor protect us."

Borne from the darkest depths of the Eye of Terror, a horrific synthesis of mechanical and organic parts wreathed in flames dove down upon Seroy. Clad in thick armour plating, the underside of which seemed to be burning, the Chaos Daemon let loose a terrifying shriek as its claws latched on to the Slick. Wings of sharpened, decorative steel beat the air mercilessly. The tooth-filled maw glowed a fierce red as fire shot out of it, engulfing the Slick's canopies.

"Seroy, eject!" Waldo shouted, adding, in a strained whisper, "come on. Get out, get out."

"Nah, no go, Hugh. Let's get outta here," Arun, frightened now, yelped.

Watching the winged Daemon in his rear-view camera as it forced Seroy's immolating Slick down towards the ground, Waldo remembered the missiles.

 _Shit, six seconds!_

"Arun, flares, flares, flares!"

"Roge."

A series of whooshes came on over Waldo's helmet, telling him the Slick's compliment of flares had just been deployed. A quick glance in his rear camera gave him visual confirmation. The eight balls of burning light, wavering and trembling, were his shield.

"Arun, let me know about the incoming." Waldo's eyes strayed to the winged Daemon that was devouring the crushed, burning remains of Seroy's Slick. "Did it take the bait?"

"Yeah, Hugh. The first one lost his aiming point, the other got bamboozled by our flares," Arun said, letting out an audible breath of relief.

An explosion amongst the umbrella of flares gave Waldo's pounding heart a little respite. The fighters wouldn't waste a further pair of missiles on a simple transport, would they?

"Lightnings now on heading three one-niner. They're closing in to cannon range."

"What's that Daemon thing doing?"

"Preoccupied – wait, no he's taking off. Looks like he wants us for a snack."

To port were the black specks of the Zeke Lightnings. Behind, the hideously mutated six-winged lizard. Waldo felt the sides of the cauldron rise up around him, blocking out the sunlight, and the withering hope that came hand-in-hand with it.

"Everyone hear me?" he continued calmly, intending to thank his crew for their efforts.

"New contacts!"

"Where?"

"Mk. 16s, half a dozen on them in flight," Arun said excitedly.

"I've got no lock. Are they ours?"

"Praise to the God-Emperor – it's the Marines, Hugh!"

"Oh, good, we—"

A multitude of sledgehammers, rapping upon the Slick's hull, shocked Waldo enough for him to wrench his yoke over to starboard and boot the rudder. "Arun, Russ, where'd that come from?"

It was Russ who replied. "God-Emperor, that thing's packing some sorta heavy automatic weapon! Maybe a twenty or twenty-five mil, I dunno. Ori, you okay… Ori?"

Levelling out, Waldo's eyes flicked up to the pursuing Daemon. "Russ, talk to me. What's Ori's status?"

"No, no, I'm alright, Hugh." Ori Hensen coughed over the intercom. "Starboard door gun took some fire. Uh… the mount's mangled. I'm not traversing it any time soon."

"Are you hit? Russ, is Ori hit?"

"Nah, I'm good, old pal."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, Russ, keep checking up on Ori."

"Got grazed there, Hugh," Arun said. "Don't think's he's gonna miss again."

The beast's flapping wings carried it off in an easterly direction as the locked-on missiles scored hits upon its armour. More a nuisance than anything else, for the Mk. 16s appeared to do little damage other than scaring it, the beast fired a spiteful gout of flame in Waldo's direction and fled from the incoming Marine fighters.

"Should we call base for a recovery team?" Arun asked.

"No. No point, Arun. Nobody will come," Hugh said solemnly. Instantaneous that had been. _Poor Andrew_. _Ripped into piece in the sky without ever having a chance to resist. God, that could have been us._

The sudden presence of Marine Stormhawks scattered the two Lightnings, who found themselves now outnumbered six-to-one.

"Have we got comms with those Stormhawks?" Arun asked as a bright yellow fighter drew alongside their starboard flank.

"Negative." Waldo watched as the Marine pilot, in armour of the same garish livery as his ship, pointed across Waldo's nose. "What's he pointing at?"

A loud burst of heavy automatic weapons' fire, cutting across Waldo's flightpath, startled him. "I think he's telling us to bugger off out of his AO."

"Yep, couldn't said it better myself."

"Okay, we're back to Korat now, lads. Hang on tight."

Obeying the Marine's orders, Waldo revised his heading and turned back south.

* * *

 **Floor Thirty-Eight Subterranean, 14:13**

Now accustomed to the darkness, my eyes picked out the wide platform and mesh fencing that was the service lift, before Lusia's torch settled upon it.

"Is this it?" I said, keeping my voice a fraction above a whisper.

"After you." Lusia beckoned me forwards. "Stand in the centre, all of you."

Stepping onto the thin steel floor, I found myself cornered by Izuru.

"I would have words with you once we are off-world," Izuru whispered.

Keeping an eye on the others as they climbed aboard, I nodded. "Yep, that's fine. We'll see where things stand after…"

"It's about—"

"Oh!" Azar yelped when a short crackle of electricity sparked by his shoulder.

The culprit, one of Lusia's snaking appendages, withdrew beneath the folds of her robes.

"Lusia!"

"What the fu—?" Azar, his face twisting in shock, nearly tripped over himself trying to put as much space between himself and Lusia as he could, ending up wedged in a corner of the lift. "James, you see that?"

"Lusia!" I pushed through the small crowd and hopped up onto the raised platform where the lift's controls were, furious at the techpriestess's mischief-making. "No more o' this bullshit now. Everyone up above us is enemy."

"Language, young man," Lusia said, her mouth stretching into a smile.

"I'm serious."

"Oh, very well. But it isn't every day I work with organics. Such treasured moments are few and far between…"

Getting down, I deflected questions the Cadians threw at me and returned to Izuru. "Okay, what was that you were on about?"

A further interruption – the Archmagos – diverted our attention. "Young Nobody!" Cawl's voice sounded in my ear.

"Archmagos," I replied, pressing the bead into my ear. Izuru did likewise and listened.

"I have your method of egress. A Simmoria-Class shuttle beneath the main hangar at the foot of Tleilax Tower. My techpriestess shall pilot, for it cannot be manned by an organic crew. But you must make sure to bring her to the summit of Tleilax first, so that she may complete her task."

"Roger." I curled my fingers through the mesh fence when the lift gave a jolt and began to move. "Once we're up on ground level, we'll split into two teams. One for the archives, the other to secure the hangar."

Hearing all this, Izuru nodded in agreement.

"Andalusia must accompany you if you wish to access the archives."

"Yes. Me, Izuru, Lusia, and another will be making for Arrakis Tower."

"Very well. I have transferred the mission details to Andalusia's core. She will guide you."

Glancing at Izuru, I said, "thank you for your hospitality, Archmagos."

"Truly, we are grateful for your aid, Archmagos," Izuru added.

"This will be my last communique to you. Any issues arise and you are on your own."

"Understood. We'll get these pylons online for you."

"Belisarius Cawl out."

With silence on the other end, I wiggled the bead and said, "you, me, Lusia, and another for security?"

Agreeing, Izuru went to speak with Lusia, whilst I explained what would be happening to the others.

"Cyrano, you're taking the Cadians and the Highlanders with you. It's your job to find the main hangar in Tleilax Tower and secure it for us. There's an AdMech ship there that the techpriestess will fly us out on. Make sense?"

"Uhh, where is it?" Cyrano, having absolutely no clue as to the whereabouts of the hangar, shrugged. Nobody had been to the Citadel before and, as such, knew nothing of the layout.

"Umm, okay… look, when we get up to the ground floor, the techpriestess will get her bearings and then tell you where you need to go."

"Is she coming with us?" Azar, looking over at Lusia worriedly, asked.

"She's coming with _us_ , Azar." I pointed a thumb at myself. "And you're coming too."

"…What?"

"You 'eard me. Now, I want that hangar properly secured, lads. Just remember that all personnel you encounter is enemy – even Interior Guard. Watch out for any o' the Inquisitor's thugs. They'll be proper hard bastards, so watch it."

"So, where you going then, James?" Lorne, standing apart from the Cadians with Borens, looked confused.

"Up the other tower; Arrakis. There's gen on the Inquisitor Izuru wants. We need the priestess for that."

"Pfft, fine. Just take o' yourself, pal. Don't want no jobbie Inquisitor mountin' your head on his wall."

"Thanks. Cyrano, I want you to have this." I picked out my comm bead and handed it to him. "Best if we keep in contact with one another. You'll be talking to Izuru – there's only two of these by the way."

"Hmm." Cyrano, doubtful, placed the bead in his ear. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes, I can hear you," Izuru, not six paces away with Lusia, said flatly. "I am right here."

"Aha, yeah, reading you."

"'Cause she's standing right there." I sighed. "Anybody not with a round in the chamber, weapon cocked, or safety off, do it right now. Keep your grenades at hand. Watch your feet on steps and heads in doorways. And, for god's sake, watch your corners."

Clambering up next to Izuru, I poked a finger at Lusia. "'Ow long before we're at ground level?"

"Hmph, the impatience…" Lusia muttered. "At current speeds, nineteen minutes, forty-one seconds."

"Right, thank you, Lusia. D'you know where exactly we'll be coming out?"

"Yes, I know exactly where. Thank the Omnissiah for providing me with the floorplans."

"Okay, 'cause the other team needs to know where they're going."

Lusia frowned. "Are you splitting us up?"

"I want a guarantee that the hangar's gonna be secure when we get down there. It looks like we're going up Arrakis, into the archives, further up, and then across to Tleilax, up again to the summit where… you'll do your thing. Then, finally, down to the hangar. It's a long, roundabout route we're on here. Lotta things could go wrong. That's not even factoring in the Inquisitor yet."

Touching my hand, Izuru said, "those are the risks. You forget the advantages we possess. One, surprise. Two, the AdMech. Three, me."

"Are you a force of nature?" Lusia snorted. "Cower before the combined might of the Eldar and the AdMech, the Inquisition will."

"There, the tables are not wholly against us." Izuru smiled. "I look forwards to tasting the rush of combat again. Know you of the highs combat grants you, Priestess?"

"She's asking if you've ever been in combat before, Lusia."

"Many times. Many skulls have been cleaved, many bodies broken by my axe. It is not a profession I excel in, I admit. No soldier am I. As enginseer I construct, maintain, sustain. Never destroy. _Never_."

Taken aback by Lusia's solemnity, I made the sign of the Aquila, surprising Izuru. "Omnissiah preserve us."

The floors dragged by. Each one a bare corridor bereft of illumination. Those nineteen minutes were an eternity. At last, with the very top of the shaft approaching, Lusia slowed the lift's ponderous pace to a dead crawl. Motioning for complete silence, I signalled everybody to hug the sides of the lift in preparation for ambush. Various clicks filled the lift as safeties were disengaged and magazines were tapped and seated. Holding the point on the right side of the lift, I unfolded the Red Rifle's skeleton stock and tucked it into my shoulder, resting my cheek upon the cold steel. Pushing the muzzle brake as close to a gap in the mesh as I dared, I waited for the loss in momentum. Coming swiftly, the rattle of the mechanism and hiss of hydraulics died away, leaving us all waiting in the dark as the two doors parted.

* * *

 **The Elysion Fields, 14:44**

The passing of the hour had yielded naught for the men and women of The Lord Castellan's Own. Their singing dying away, they loosened their parade-ground posture and spread out properly into combat formation.

"That's more like it," Simon Corta muttered. He even entertained the thought that the Cadians might try their hand at some combined-arms tactics. The Knights, walkers, and tanks however kept stubbornly to themselves, and not a single Marine fighter-bomber appeared in the skies above the plains. Worryingly though were the ominous storm clouds that hung at only a few hundred feet. Unnatural, and summoned by the foul presence of Chaos, the murk seemed to spell the planet's doom.

"It's working. Mister Corta, it's working!" Len Wharton said, bringing a hand up to the ear. Because of the bulk, Wharton was unable to don hard cover and could only wear his blue infantry beret which was squashed by the headset.

"Yeah, you hear anything?" Corta said.

"Laurel Three-Six. Contact. Wait. Out," Wharton repeated from what he'd overheard.

"Can you transmit?"

"Umm. Hang on, sir."

The contact was confirmed, not over comms but by the crackling of small-arms and bass thudding of heavy automatics away to the south.

"Goliath One-Four. Contact. Wait. Out," Wharton said in a monotone.

A thunderous boom from the north saw the solitary super-heavy and accompanying tank troop be engaged. With only their general shapes and muzzle blast visible, it was unclear what they were engaging.

"Mister Corta, what's our callsign?"

"No idea."

 _Now it's our turn_ , Corta thought grimly. Filling his gut with a niggling dread was the sight of the dead ground stretching away before him, like a salt pan. It was not because it was scattered with friendly and enemy confirmed – the bodies had petered out a while back – it was the complete absence of the Zeke. Not a boot print, track mark, dumped magazine, or even a spent cartridge casing gave evidence of his presence.

With no enemy in sight, the aggressive whiz-crack of passing rounds came a little before the far-off reports, driving the company into the ground. Cries of _'contact'_ were given by the 'C' Company men. The Cadians, however, remained silent.

"That stray?" Wharton shouted, clutching Dranno's Lecta to his chest.

"Hang on…" Corta fumbled with his binocular pouch, pulling the leather strap attached to his glasses over his head and seating them against his body armour. Zeke was still out of sight, but rounds were now cutting across the plain. And they weren't nearing the end of their trajectory either. They still had enough velocity to be lethal, as a Cadian found when a rifle bullet dropped him. Giving a loud sigh, a Cadian in Denali's platoon put a hand over his heart and slowly sank to his knees. "Emperor protect," he repeated, over and over again as his voice grew weaker.

"Drop pods, Mister Corta!" Rhidian exclaimed.

"I see them." Corta glassed the sky as the latest wave of drop pods fell through the clouds. This time he was certain they weren't friendly. _We're being left behind here_ , Corta realised. Both the Cadian companies in the vanguard and Brigade Headquarters were advancing undeterred with apparent fearlessness in the face of the increasing fire, leading Corta to order the company to pick up their pace.

Thumps of rounds slamming into cloth and body armour, and the sizzle of singed flesh arose as more and more men were hit. As Cadians fell, the others kept on going, ignoring their dead and dying comrades. Then a Cannon man went down. He was the first since Dranno's death by friendly fire, and Corta did not know his name, nor did he know the name of the Cannon who delivered the man's tags to him.

"Rackstro," Corta, his mouth dry, read the name aloud. It weighed heavy on his heart, though he could not place a face to the name. _Sorry, son._

Growing dispirited by the slowly mounting casualties, Corta was tempted to send the Corvo back carrying the wounded. But who would treat them? He was not aware of any casualty stations still operating. Most second line personnel would have already been evacuated. So, there was nothing anybody could do for the wounded, except quicken their journey to the Emperor. Selfish as it was, Corta had wanted the Corvo on-hand for the retreat he had planned for him and the grunts. But with the lord castellan's coming and the subsequent sortie from the curtain wall, that was now a wild dream. To desert now would bring the full fury of the Cadians down upon him and his tiny handful of grunts. The dark-haired, rose-petalled Sister, possessing the same otherworldly aura as the stickie, would likely inflict cruel punishment upon him for fleeing like a coward when he was needed most. And Corta was not a coward, he just feared a pointless death was in store for him and the dying 'C' Company. A death he was walking towards right now, with no other option but to continue walking.

Saturation blasts from ships in orbit slammed into the ground, pummelling what lay in their target reticules into atoms. These strikes put the Cadian's advance on hold as everybody, Guardsman and grunt took non-existent cover in the inch-high grass and waited for the barrage to lift.

 _How could anybody survive that?_ Corta wondered. _Will there be anything left for us to engage?_

In the absence of wind, clouds of dust and smoke hung immobile over the battlefield, further reducing the distance Corta could see. It was just as well. Had he seen what was coming his way, he may have acted on his urge to survive no matter the cost.

Out of the zone the orbital strikes had just beaten, a low rumble emerged, like a small earthquake. Rolling forwards, the tremors grew. Sensing something was stirring, the general passed the order to halt around. Again, instead of relaying it over comms, it was blared out through a megaphone, boring into the ears of any one nearby.

"We're about to get contact…" Corta said under his breath. Turning back to the Corvo, he signalled Colvin to point the nose in the direction of the curtain wall and man the 106. There was no need to spread the word to the waiting platoons, they could all hear the pounding of many feet upon the plain. A yellow flare, sent up by the enemy, burst into sparkling fragments, signalling the commencement of the attack.

The Cadians in the vanguard had all gone prone and were aiming their bayonet-equipped M-36s westwards. R Company, behind, knelt and prepared to fire over their brothers' and sisters' heads. Glancing over at Brigade Headquarters, Corta noticed that General Creed had knelt, removed a glove and placed his hand upon the ground. Some sort of sixth sense he had acquired over the years spent fighting?

"That's it. Hold your fire, lads," Corta said. It was to himself than to anybody else. Only by sending Rhidian out could he relay orders effectively to the platoons on his flanks, such was the confounding lack of commo gear.

A shift in the wind drew the dust back like a curtain, peeling it away from an unbroken line of grey-brown that looked to be nearly three kilometres wide, and many times that deep. Catching his breath in his throat, Corta glassed the dark wave, swearing quietly to himself when he saw the full weight of the Zeke assault. They were five-hundred yards away.

"Are we shooting, Mister Corta?" Wharton asked. He could not see Zeke as clearly as Corta could but was shivering with apprehension at the incredible breadth of the Zeke army.

"I dunno," Corta said cheerfully, keeping a nonchalant tone. "S'pose it's up to General Creed, really."

"I, uh… I wouldn't want to be taking orders from a Cadian," Wharton laughed shakily, trying to emulate Corta's light-hearted attitude. "What's worse. Them Zekes or being ordered about by a Guards officer?"

"Oh, the Guards of course. I'll say this while I have the chance: there's never been a bigger bunch of elitist pricks in the Guard. But, I'll say this too: I can't fault them for the size of their bollocks."

"READY ARMS!" the man with the megaphone barked.

"Here we go!" Corta shouted. "Get ready, lads."

"AIM!"

Setting his M-36's selector to 'semi', Corta adjusted the power setting to two-thirds, and took aim at the faraway smudges.

"FIRE!"

* * *

 ** _IMT_ _Ionia_ , Kraf Airbase, 14:58**

In the two hours that _Ionia_ had been a sitting there, a fat, plum target, not a single bomb or missile had been dropped or fired at its massive superstructure, nor had any artillery shells damaged it, or bullets scratched the paint. The remarkable beacon of safety had attracted thousands upon thousands of troops. At first, _Ionia's_ crew had carefully counted the numbers coming aboard and had allocated them a place to sit in the upper lounges. But, as time wore on, the crew's discipline lapsed somewhat, though the queues remained orderly under the commissar's supervision. Gartlan Mallis saw men boarding further down without being counted, and others heading off where they pleased instead of being shown where to go by the crew.

Then, just a few minutes before 15:00, the NTO came up from a lower deck and announced to Mallis that _Ionia_ was full. "Right, you've got 6700 onboard already."

"I'll tell the captain we can't take any more," Mallis said.

"You've had the luck so far. I wish it holds you until you're out of the system," the NTO said, pushing against the ongoing flow of Guardsmen. "No more room on this vessel. Back down the line, all of you!"

Squeezing through the packed companionways and passages, Mallis went aft and climbed up to the bridge. There was not a single nook, a single inch of space left unoccupied, making Mallis wonder if _Ionia_ would be able to carry her own weight plus the weight of the 6700 men and women aboard. Most vessels of _Ionia's_ size could not operate in-atmo due to their mass being too great for their engines to handle. Once they put down, they would not take off again. They were simply too heavy.

"NTO reports we have 6700 men onboard, sir," Mallis said to Captain Jerreume Averell when he stepped on to the bridge.

"Right, we'll go with what we've got. Navigator." Averell turned to a wizened old man wired into a high-backed chair in the centre of the bridge. "Plot us a course through the warp to the Belis Corona System."

"Will the Marines be providing escort?" Mallis asked.

"They've not answered my request."

"Well, shouldn't we wait for fighters to clear us a path first, sir?"

"We wait any longer we risk getting caught on the ground in an air raid. Throne knows we've been lucky so far. Let's not push it any further, eh? Pilot, take us up."

Crammed alongside one another in a narrow corridor, Ral, Tom, Aimo, Peter, and Joe listened listlessly to the thumps and clatters on the decks above and below them. Too crowded to sit down, they could only stand and lean their shoulders against the bulkhead.

"Only thing worse than a Cadian is a commissar," Ral muttered.

"Still don't understand why she let us through." Joe shook Tom's shoulder. He was falling asleep.

"'Cause that 37th fella knew her. Or she knew him, I dunno," Aimo said.

"Perceptive, for a blind man." Tom rubbed his tired eyes with a knuckle.

"This…" Aimo pointed at his bandaged eyes. "…Is temporary. That…" He gestured vaguely at where he thought Tom's wounded backside was. "That is permanent."

"Hope we don't see any 37th on this tub," Ral said darkly. "Won't be big enough for the both of us."

"Did he say his name?"

"Who cares? We're away now."

"Hope James made it out too," Aimo said.

At the mention of Larn's name, Ral groaned. "Don't, Aimo."

"What? He's one of us."

"He stopped being one of us when he ran out on us with that—"

"Ral, he's got a job to do. If he don't do it, then we'll all be for the chop."

Grunting scornfully, Ral retorted, "yeah, but he chose her over us."

Overhearing, a nearby Cadian laughed. "Now, that's one thing you can't come between – young love!"

"What are you laughing at?" Ral pushed away from the bulkhead to confront the nosy Cadian.

"Alright, alright." Aimo dug his fingers into Ral's sleeve and kept ahold of him. "Sorry, fella. It's his time of the month."

"Come on, Ral. We're alright." Joe reached past Peter to restrain Ral from getting stuck in to the Cadian. "Soon be off this rock."

"Maybe Belis Corona, I dunno. Maybe Haven. Hope it's Haven. That's where the missus and the little one are. Joe, you got any…?"

"Oi." Joe slapped Aimo on the arm. "Leave off…"

 _Better to not talk about family in Peter's company,_ Joe thought, chiding Aimo for his lack of pity.

"Well, there's this…"

"No."

"Well, I was gonna mention a nice flesh-den I know…"

"Funny, you make it sound disgusting, the way you spin it," Tom said, transferring his weight from one foot to the other. "You're married too, aren't you?"

"Aw, she won't mind. Besides, I've still got hands and a prick. And I know what to do with them."

A subtle shift underneath the grunt's feet and the low hum of the ship's engines grew to an audible purr. This change in pitch brought smiles and cheers.

"That's more like it." Joe grinned, rubbing Peter's shoulder. The poor boy was still in shock and had not spoken a word. "Going home, Peter."

"Don't worry. We'll take of you Peter. You're one of us now." Aimo grinned.

"We'll be up in the black in forty minutes, Guardsmen," a crewman announced as he came by. "Don't you worry your little socks. The Marines are protecting us."

* * *

 **The Citadel, 14:37**

Faced with a sealed bulkhead door and a leering AdMech skull, I waved Lusia forwards, stepping through the parting gates and taking up position opposite the wall-mounted control panel to cover her.

 _Come on!_ I gestured at the techpriestess when she took her time. _Stack up against the walls, all of you!_

With an insolent smirk, Lusia carried herself over lazily as the others lined up against the walls and trained their rifles, lasguns, and automatics on the skull-faced door. When one of the Cadians sniffed loudly and wiped his nose, I stabbed a finger at the floor furiously and mouthed, " _shut the fuck up!_ "

One cough, sniffle, or sneeze could give the game away at the worst moment. And I wasn't about to get into a contact with the Citadel's garrison because a Cadian couldn't keep his mouth or nose closed. The Cadian in question, either Gunnel, Arken, Mrenk, or Kasabo, flinched when he saw my murderous glare, and looked down at his boots, shame-faced.

Effortlessly bypassing the locks holding the doors together, Lusia stepped away from the panel, bowed to us, then spread her arms. "Guardsmen. Raise your lasguns. Stand aside and let words be our weapon."

"Lusia, move, you're in our line of fire!" I hissed.

Directly opposite me, Izuru gave Lusia a withering look. "Priestess, stand aside."

"Make me," Lusia growled. The servo-appendages attached to her backpack uncurled and rose above her shoulders, their jaws opening and closing menacingly. The shadow then passed, and Lusia spun around merrily and slipped through the slowly widening crack. Almost immediately a voice commanded her to halt and explain her presence.

"Who's that?" Lorne pushed forwards, trying to hear what was being said.

Jabbing at Lorne, I mouthed for him to stay where he was. It was certainly a sentry, most likely Interior Guard.

"Hold," Izuru warned. "Let her words be her weapon."

Slinging the Red Rifle, I manoeuvred it around to my back, wincing when the receiver clacked against the Grapo's tubular body. Nodding at Izuru, I jerked my head and unsheathed my 8-inch knife. Drawing her AdMech-forged sword, Izuru waited for the doors to open far enough for us to rush through together. When the gap had widened, both of us bounded through, our respective blades looking for flesh, only to be met with Lusia, standing grinning over the prone bodies of a pair of Interior Guardsmen. Dressed in impeccably clean khaki fatigues and Cadian body armour, the two looked no different from the regular rank-and-file Cadians, were it not for the bright orange stripes on their covers, torsos, and shoulder-guards.

"How d'you…?" Grimacing, I returned my knife to its sheathe.

A spark of blue electricity coming from one of Lusia's many coiled appendages caught my eye.

"Hmm. Not bad… for a clanker."

The same electrocuting arm shot out from beneath her cape and wrapped itself around my neck.

"Oh, that's it then? You wanna throw some hands, ya bloody bint!" Lorne hefted his Molota stubber and aimed it at Lusia, thrusting one of the Cadians aside to get a better shot.

"Stay your rifles, Highlanders," Izuru snarled, whipping her sword out and holding it on the techpriestess. "Many lives will be lost unless we can co-operate in harmony."

"In what?" I choked when the cold arm began to tighten.

"S'not a word I've ever heard of," Borens said. He too looked perfectly content with zipping Lusia.

"You will carry yourself professionally and do away with any pettiness from here-on," Izuru said authoritatively. "Do we understand one another?"

"Perhaps I was rash…" Lusia said, unwrapping her arm.

"Aw, you're right about that," I gasped.

"And you." Izuru rounded on me. "I would say the same. But be respectful and understanding."

Smarting, I said, "roger that."

"We're wasting time here," Cyrano said.

"Ah, he's got some sense, he has," Azar added. Seeing me tied up had no doubt given him some satisfaction.

"So, where to next then, _madam_ ," I said sarcastically, rubbing my throat.

"'Ang on. What we doing with these beauties?" Lorne kicked an Interior Guardsman in the side.

The idea of using their uniforms to bluff our way along danced tantalisingly in front of me. In the end though I consented to leaving them there. No doubt their electro-therapy would leave them in bye-byes for a good few hours.

Bringing my rifle around to my front, I offered Lusia the unenviable position of the point. "After you."

Guided by Lusia, I led the group along a corridor with walls angling outwards in a V-shape, then turning inwards, making the corridor hexagonal. Inside alcoves in between the thick struts were pools of darkness. Above our heads, wires and cables hung loosely. The Citadel's basement, if that was where we indeed were, looked almost industrial, what with the black and yellow hazard stripes that were marked on the floor. Not used to the oddities of Imperial architecture, I hesitated when Lusia stepped through a doorway that had curved teeth. Spiralling inwards in a circular pattern, the portal promptly sealed behind her.

"Lusia." I waved a hand across the portal, which reopened silently. There Lusia stood, silent and smiling.

"In your own time, young man."

Through the network of maintenance tunnels, we passed by numerous AdMech interface units that Lusia could quite rightly have made us of. Wondering why she didn't, I said, over her shoulder, "these terminals… can you connect to 'em?"

"They control the facility's central heating and lighting, young man," Lusia said curtly. "I would advise you not dabble in AdMech matters. I have been fully briefed by the Archmagos himself and know exactly where we are, where we need to go, and what I must do."

"Alright. Good. Lucky to have you then."

"Are we at an impasse?" Izuru asked me.

"No-no-no. Lusia explained why she weren't connecting with these terminals. They're for heat and light down here. Useless to us."

"I see."

I took the gentle nudge to keep out of AdMech affairs as a firm reminder that Lusia did indeed know what she was doing, and that I was foolish to doubt her. Certainly, she seemed capable at the art of deception and was no stranger to violence, though that plasma pistol she carried frightened me. I had never seen such a weapon used before, and only had a rough idea of its destructive capabilities. The large axe in her right hand also looked like a weapon to cause unnecessary suffering. It called into question its practical use in a contact. Why pack such a ghastly close-combat weapon when the opposition could simply stand off and shoot, without having to take dire risks by getting into striking distance? Axes and swords struck me as terribly old-fashioned and not at all useful given the huge leaps in technology the AdMech had made over everybody else.

Soon, the grim, utilitarian basement gave way to grim, decorative passageways, displaying buffed Aquilas, wizened statues standing upon plinths, and skulls nailed to the walls. Why the Imperium had such a fixation with skulls, I had never understood. But, in the basement of the Citadel, they were everywhere. _Bio-mechanical obsession_ , I guessed. The wealthy did have a fixation on augments. The more metal grafted into their flesh, the bigger their influence was, and the richer they were. Of course, one might claim that it brought them closer to the Omnissiah, and through it, the Emperor. _Never liked the way those pipes went inside their bodies,_ I remarked, trying to avoid looking too closely at the cloaked and hooded statues lining the corridor ahead. With their faces hidden, the statues had thick piping running up into orifices, likely connecting with other bits that – in theory – they would have installed inside their bodies. _How could anyone want that done to themselves?_

" _Beware_." Lusia planted her axe handle into the smooth flagstones, barring my way.

"How many?" I guessed there was an Interior Guard position somewhere ahead. When Lusia did not reply, I signalled the group to take cover in the recesses in the walls behind the statues.

" _Go – go on!_ " I waved my rifle's barrel at Lusia. " _Have a look_."

Pouting, Lusia sauntered away, making a left at a junction. Holding up a flat palm at the others, I slipped around the statue and made off after Lusia, halting at the junction and peering around the corner.

"Oh, shit. There's four of them," I muttered. Lusia, cockily, was heading towards a team of four Interior Guardsmen, standing watch on two passageways. Positioned ramrod-straight, with the butts of their bayonet-affixed M-36s resting on the floor, the four Guardsmen faced one another on all four points of the square.

"What is our friend doing?" Izuru touched my shoulder and took a peek at the Guardsmen.

"I dunno."

The Interior Guardsman on the right, nearest to Lusia, brought his M-36 to port-arms and stepped forwards to meet her, calling out in a loud, clipped tone. "Halt, madam. State your business and affiliation."

In a voice too soft for me to hear, Lusia addressed the Guardsman.

"What are you doing, Lusia?" I breathed.

"Be ready to engage the target closest to you," Izuru said in my ear.

"We're _not_ engaging."

"Do as I say. What are a few more dead Cadians?"

"But, Lusia—"

"Cannot reach every single target in time."

Unslinging her Roga, Izuru drew back and prepared to sprint. "Fire when Lusia attacks."

Scooting across the open space, her Roga held in one hand, and scabbard steadied in the other, Izuru made the distance unseen, and exchanged her normally right-handed grip for a left-handed grip. Forced to either adopt a right-handed stance, or lean my entire upper body out of cover, I swapped firing hands and braced the Red Rifle by the magazine. Lusia took more time than I expected, seemingly engaging in idle chit-chat with the Guardsman, which struck me as very odd. A wild gesture from her – an exploding object – made the Guardsmen bark out an order to his colleagues, an order incomprehensible to me, owing to the coarse, parade-ground bawl the Guardsman gave. Two of the others, one on each corner of the square, marched smartly over to one another, fell in at each other's shoulders and jogged away, still comically holding their Kantraels at port-arms.

"Clever girl." I grinned, looking over at Izuru. She however did not share my approval, giving me a look of indifference, verging on jealousy. At least that was what I read in her eyes.

Lusia's next move was to render the nearest Guardsman unconscious by throttling him around the neck and electrocuting him. Then, in a stunning display of strength, Lusia lifted the Guardsman up and hurled him into his companion, who hadn't yet even gathered his breath to shout. The heavy composition of body mass and solid armour plates rushing at the unprepared Guardsman dashed him back against the wall, knocking him senseless.

Wasting no time, I sang out quietly. "Lads, on me!"

"Make sure they're down!" I said to Izuru.

Whilst Izuru moved down to Lusia, I waited for the others to consolidate on my position.

"We burnt?" Lorne asked.

"Nah, we're still good. Be aware, there were four Cadians. Two of 'em went off. Two of the others, Lusia took care of. I want those bodies moved and hidden behind those statues. Iggery!"

Moving with haste now, I got into position and covered one corridor, whilst Izuru covered the second, and Cyrano kept watch on the third.

"Thick fucker's heavy," Lorne grunted, heaving the first Interior Guardsman up and thrusting the deadweight at Azar.

"Aw, what did you bastards have for breakfast?" Azar flagged underneath the Cadian's weight. "Help me, you idle lot," he growled at the four Cadians. "Listen you're in this deep, you twatbags. You're not weaselling your way out of this one. Now, dig out!"

Begrudgingly assisted by the service troops, Azar and the Highlanders made off with the Interior Guardsmen, swiftly returning.

"Izuru, Cyrano, on me." I beckoned the two over, waving at the Highlanders to cover the other routes whilst we convened.

"Down that way, Lusia?" I pointed at the corridor a pair of the Guardsmen had been guarding.

"Proceed with caution. From here on, automated observation patrols the corridors."

"You got a solution for that, too?"

"As a matter of fact, I do, young man."

"Do away with the condescension, techpriestess." Izuru fixed Lusia with a baleful stare, conveying wordless disdain for her. Fully prepared to put up with Lusia's cheek, I made eyes at Izuru and motioned for Lusia to lead off once more.

The automated observation turned out to be servo-skulls, mounting pict recorders. These devices cast a thin line of green light across the sector they were scanning; leaving not an inch of ground unturned. When first confronted with an incoming servo-skull, Lusia bid us hug the wall – there were no recesses to hide in – and unfolded a portable cogitator mounted on her forearm.

"What's she doing?" Azar said.

"Shut it." Lorne aimed a kick at Azar's leg.

"Let the lady work." I shot a warning look at both of them.

"Be still and silent," Lusia said. "I have fed it a loop I recorded from the corridor we passed." Making some adjustments, Lusia stepped over and assumed her position beside me to wait for the skull to pass.

"Now, what was that about a solution?" Lusia grinned.

" _Shush_." I slapped her on the arm to shut her up, right as the servo-skull came around the corner, chirping as it made its rounds. Holding myself as still as I could, I shut my eyes when the skull's beady green eye roved along us. The eerie whirr the thing made prickled the hairs on my arms. _That's it, take your time,_ I thought exasperatedly. The tightness of my belt kit and the weight of the suspenders on my shoulders had brought on a sweat, with the material of my shirt and jacket plastered to my back. I could feel the red line the leather sweatband of my beret had pressed in my forehead. Throne, this was agony.

Opening my eyes, I watched the skull float away, humming to itself. Were it any the wiser to the eleven interlopers it had just scanned, it was not immediately obvious.

"Go." I tapped Lusia, hoping she would continue to provide handy solutions for us. "Lusia, move."

With the group spreading out on both sides of the next corridor, I motioned for speed and caution, something Lusia flat-out disagreed with. This change in pace brought me face to face with a man in heavy grey robes, who strolled out of a side passage, completely out of the blue. Stopping, I aimed my Kazalak at the man's head, my eyes meeting his, conveying a silent yet forceful demand for him to keep quiet. The admin worker's round, shaved, and ugly face lost what little colour it had. In the tenth of a second we stared at each other, the admin worker decided to take his chances. It was a foolish, idiotic move. Idiotic for me, as I did nothing when he turned and tried to run away. Shooting him in the back I would not do. Izuru, quicker on the uptake, barrelled past me and caught up with the man, tackling him full on with a manoeuvre I might have seen employed on the sports field. With the man down on his front, Izuru sat on him and pinned his arms behind his back. Gripping him underneath the jaw, Izuru pulled it upwards. "If you speak unless spoken to. I will cut your tongue out and feed it to you."

Skidding onto one knee beside Izuru, I grabbed the man by the ear and spat, "are you Inquisition?"

"N-n-no. No. I'm – I'm in the Administratum."

Poking him in the temple, I continued. "What division?"

"Logis Strategos – threat analysis!" the man gasped. "Please, do not harm me. My name is—"

"Say another word…" Izuru wrenched the man's head upwards, throttling him of air.

"If he does, cut his tongue out. He needs to listen. Not to speak."

"Another ugly mug." Lorne grimaced. "Where's all your friends at? Why so seedy 'round 'ere?"

"Answer."

"General evacuation. All support staff flown out. Just a skeleton staff remain. I drew unlucky."

"How many left?" I asked, quickly mouthing for Cyrano, Azar, and the others to keep watch for any more servo-skulls. "And where are they?"

"I don't – I don't know that. My team was evacuated yesterday. I am the only one remaining."

"Is he lying?" I looked to Izuru.

Shaking her head at me, Izuru spoke. "A high-ranking official. Where would he reside in the Citadel?"

"Uhh… the state rooms. Fourth floor of the main complex, overlooking the western landing pad, underneath Arrakis and Tleilax Tower. It has private access to both towers."

"We want in to both towers and the hangar at the bottom of Tleilax. How many more Interior Guardsmen are between us and them?"

"Impossible – _impossible!_ The Citadel is assailed from the north and the west. It is on lockdown. Nine blastdoors are between here and the turbolifts. All are sealed!"

"Well, you got through, didn't ya?" I twisted the analyst's ear. "I bet you know all the nooks and crannies in this 'ere dump. Or – even better – a control room where you can lift the lockdown for us."

"I can't do that – _aahh!_ " The analyst writhed in pain when Izuru put pressure on a nerve in his back.

"Why not?"

" _Not. My. Department_."

Lusia stepped forwards eagerly. "I could…"

"Yep. Lusia, you're up."

"By the Omnissiah," the analyst gasped when he caught sight of Lusia in the corner of his eye. "What treachery is this?"

"No treachery. Plain, simple fact," I said, nodding at Izuru to pull the analyst up from the floor. "You'll be our insurance."

"If you think the Interior Guard will withhold opening fire because I am held by you, you are wholly mistaken, boy."

Clamping her forearm across the analyst's neck, Izuru lifted him off his feet. "Is your tongue some precious thing to you? Talk again and wraithbone shall meet flesh."

Eyes widening in terror when he realised he was held captive by a xenos, the analyst quickly became subservient.

"Bring it in, lads. Azar, you've got Cheggers for company. Leave all the bits on him."

It was not because I wanted to give Azar the shit detail. It was that I trusted him more than I trusted any of the Cadians, which was saying a lot. However vile the blood between us may have been, Azar had had plenty of opportunities in the past to do away with me, either through his own actions, or letting the enemy try his luck. For all his faults, the cook was a tough little bugger. And I did not doubt his aim with the Lecta he had on him at all times, or the shrewdness behind his mean, dark eyes. If given the chance, could he have perhaps made a better sergeant than I had?

* * *

 **Valkyrie 229, Korat District, 15:17**

His VTOL thrusters pointed at the full ninety degrees, Waldo kissed the throttle, nudging his ship upwards just enough for it to poke its nose over the derelict eleven-storey hab-block, and clear the Scara's line of fire.

With the Marines refusing to fly cover for the troops on the ground, out of apathy or just plain ignorance of the human's plight, Waldo had neglected his orders to ferry ammunition to the rearguard and had remained in the vicinity of the Korat district's airstrip, determined to provide as much protection for the evacuation as he and his Slick could. Time and again he had torn over the heads of the Cadians and countless other regiments on the ground, throwing his ship around the sky like a fighter, pulling off desperate manoeuvres as dropships, bombers, and escorting fighters pounded away at the defenceless men and women. Any enemy plane over the airstrip was a worry, but by far the worst were the dropships. More often or not, they bore squads of Chaos Marines; veteran killers, thirsting for the blood of the little people that were all crammed into one easy-to-reach place.

Thunderhawks, formerly in Imperial service, came in groups of three. Their batteries warmed, their bay doors open, the passengers inside ready to disembark and cause havoc upon the landing ground. Shooed away from them by marauding fighters, Waldo returned the compliment. Hiding inside a tall building, he began a mad game of popping up and down, continually raking the distant Thunderhawks with the Scara, as range with a multilaser was not a concern. Lead a little then point and shoot. The interference he was causing spurred Zeke to break off his attempt at landing troops inside the perimeter and come after him instead, exactly as he had planned.

Continually foiling any fighters that tried to acquire him amongst the maze of ruined overpasses, tunnels, and buildings, Waldo found the Thunderhawks more difficult to shake off, their slower airspeed giving the pilots an easier time of getting a firing solution with their twin, forward-facing 25-millimetre batteries. With three of the dropships now chasing him, Waldo pointed his nose to the west, intending to lead them on a wide route away from the evacuation points.

Pillars of black smoke rose from dozens of fiery pits that had been gouged in the Citadel's curtain wall and sloping exterior by the nightmarish bombardment the enemy had subjected the garrison to. Passing the Citadel's two great towers on his starboard side, Hugh Waldo dipped his nose towards the grey, polluted mass of the Luten, glancing up at the Chaos Thunderhawk in his rear-facing camera. _Try this, fella_ , he thought, grazing the surface of the river with his skids. His grip rock-steady, Waldo guided the Slick first underneath the pock-marked surface of the road bridge and then under the rail bridge, hoping the enemy pilot, who seemed to think that his dropship was a much more manoeuvrable fighter, would try and follow. As if operating in sync with the pursuing dropships however, brilliant spouts of water were flung upwards by falling artillery, either badly calculated or short rounds. The shockwaves rocking the Slick, Waldo regained height and kicked his rudder to avoid flying through the spouts, his canopy receiving a dousing of scummy water that ran down the Slick's body in buckets. Breaking right and gaining altitude over the Citadel, Waldo saw the Thunderhawks bank left and follow the bend in the river, their pilots appreciating that their larger, heavier ships couldn't out-turn the more-agile Valkyrie.

"Contact. Cateran, bearing one-seven-four," Arun said. "He's on his own."

The single blip on Waldo's radar appeared far closer than it should have, telling him that the lone raider had snuck in at low level. The growing signature indicated that it was now gaining altitude in preparation for a bombing run.

"Roger, I see it." Waldo dipped his port wing and calculated a new bearing, sweeping around one of the towers, leaving mere feet between the Slick and the turrets as he opened his throttle for the northwards flight. One less bomber was inconsequential in the long run, but it would do wonders for the troops' morale if the Cateran was to go down in flames before she could drop her load.

Making visual contact with the raider after a full minute of them closing in on their respective headings, Waldo marvelled at the nerve of the Zeke pilot, who continued to hold his course without worry that he would be attacked head-on. _Throne, he's really driving for it_ , Waldo thought, waiting for the black silhouette to draw into his crosshairs. Walking the Scara upwards at the Cateran's rounded nose, the chin gunner replied with a savage burst of cannon shells, the force of the heavy automatic weapon throwing Waldo's aim off. With twenty-millimetre cracking through the air around him, Waldo dropped his nose and flew underneath the bomber, which continued to fire with its ventral cannon even as it roared overhead, rattling the rivets and bolts holding the Slick together, and shaking Waldo in his sweat-stained seat.

Exhaling sharply – he had been holding his breath – Waldo called out to the crew. "Everybody okay back there?"

The breathless, excited voices of Arun, Russ, and Irv soothed Waldo's tightening nerves. "Ori, you alright? Russ, check on Ori."

Fixed on chasing down the bomber, Waldo prepared to come around, neglecting to check his fire control radar.

"Contact. Six Lightnings, bearing three-one-one. They're on to us, Hugh!"

Arun's warning made Waldo realise the folly of pursuing the Cateran, since fighters were now spreading out to form a protective screen for the heavies to operate safely. The half dozen now on the radar, six kilometres distant – a stone's throw – thrust Waldo's duty to protect his crew to centre-stage.

Blasting away on an identical heading, Waldo bled his altitude, advancing his throttle to the stops. Zipping over the crumbling remains of the curtain wall of Kraf's north-east district, he took to the open country, blitzing over the startled hordes of Zeke at Mach 0.7, weaving through the towering infernos the Chaos Marine warbands and Daemons had brought with them from the hellish depths of the warp. Warning trills came and went as enterprising Zekes sought to acquire him with shoulder-fired missiles. But he was travelling too fast.

 _Come on. Give up, give up_. _I'm nothing to you. Let the transport escape. Let it go,_ Waldo pleaded silently.

"Ori's hit."

Russ Reath's words engulfed Waldo's already uncomfortably warm body in an even worse flush. Composing himself, he replied coolly. "Understood, Russ."

"Can we put down?"

"Negative. Not now, Russ."

 _Oh, Ori, why didn't you tell us?_ Waldo groaned. The likelihood of setting down safely without fear of Zeke's intervention was diminishing every second Waldo kept to his heading. Impossible. There was not a chance of it happening as long as they were outside the city.

"Can you see where Ori's hit?"

"Shrapnel to the chest. It penetrated his body armour. I can't tell how deep it's lodged yet."

"Roge. Strap him down and make him comfortable. I'm going to set a new heading once we're in the clear."

Keenly aware that the Slick's supply of countermeasures was exhausted, and the ordnance it bore underneath its wings was useless in air-to-air combat, Waldo's choice to run had been his only option. Selfish though it was. His crew took priority over any number of endangered personnel; be they Guard, Navy, or civilian.

Cutting through a valley not unlike the one he had used earlier in the afternoon, Waldo rolled the Slick on its axis when the walls became sheer and narrow. Thankfully, the Lightnings had not pursued, having turned back to where the fighting was, leaving the Valkyrie all alone. Flying on one wingtip when he left the canyon, Waldo levelled out above a wide lake. Scutula it was known as. The lake was the deepest body of water on Cadia Prime. At its deepest, 430 metres, a full seven kilometres at its widest, and over twice that long. There was not a single sign of enemy on the eastern shoreline.

 _15:32_ , Waldo counted in the upper righthand corner of his head-up-display. _Time to turn back and get Ori some treatment._

"Hugh, can we high-tail it down to Kraf. Ori's not looking too good," Russ said.

"Hugh, I'm seeing something big – _massive_ – coming down from the troposphere," Arun cut in.

Far outweighing anything else that had ever clogged Waldo's radar, this new unknown was most likely a derelict warship falling from low orbit. Though Arun's mention of the troposphere culled any notion that it was a simple wreck – one of hundreds that were no doubt strewn about in graveyards littering Cadia's orbit. This was something else.

Arun, as it turned out, voiced Waldo's very thoughts. "Zeke had to have nailed her on take-off. Observe her angle. It's too shallow for her to have fallen all the way from orbit."

"I see it." Waldo looked out at a low-lying cloudbank off his starboard bow. "She's a big 'un. Confirm IFF?"

" _Ionia_. She's a charter vessel."

"Charter…"

"Lotta passengers aboard."

Maintaining his northerly course, Waldo watched as the underside of the ship appeared in view, trailing smoke and burning from many points of impact upon her hull. It was scarcely possible that the Marines had withheld an escort for the massive charter-turned-troopship. But, right there was clean evidence of their overt disdain for any and all things human.

Scraping its underbelly on the crown of a hill overlooking the lake's eastern shoreline, _Ionia_ plunged into the Scutula, the 20 000 tonner's impact hurling spray hundreds of feet into the air before it came to rest in the water; its mass keeping it from going under completely.

 _Poor fellows_ , Waldo tutted under his breath, bringing the Slick around 180 degrees on to a southerly heading. _They really must have thought they were home safe._

"Hugh, company," Arun barked. "Zeke bomber, bearing one-four-three. Two klicks out."

 _What?_ Eyes flicking up to his rear-facing camera, Waldo glimpsed a faint shape of an aircraft drop out of the clouds. With the beast down, the carrion birds were beginning to materialise, their claws and beaks seeking to tear bloody strips off.

 _Throne, they're easy meat down there. They haven't a hope._

Glued to his control yoke and throttle, Waldo's hands twitched. In the throes of indecision, he watched the bomber grow in size. Bigger than a Cateran, this one had four-engines, heavy armour and a full bomb-bay for certain. With all the moisture in his mouth sucked dry, Waldo felt the urge to turn around and make for the bomber with all speed. But the quietly pleading tone in Russ's voice dragged him away from the ditched ship. It was Ori.

"Hugh. Ori's coughing up blood."

The voices of Arun, Russ, and Irv cluttering up the intercom, Waldo sat paralysed, his eyes nervously flitting between his fuel gauge, the charge count for the Scara, and the looming threat of the bomber, bringing death to the thousands stranded on _Ionia._ Dancing around and around the choices, too on edge to commit himself, Waldo shied away from taking action, shaking his head at the hopelessness of the situation. It was one or one-thousand. Ori Hensen or the Imperial soldiers and sailors, abandoned and forgotten by their saviours; the so-called Defenders of Humanity. _Come on. Do something. Take action!_ Waldo's inner voice urged. _How many thousands aboard. One-thousand. Two-thousand?_ The length and girth of the ship brought it closer to the latter, most likely. Too many to neglect. Desperate now, Waldo blocked out his crew's voices, leaving just him sitting there alone. Just him and his ship, the power to influence the outcome of the nightmare resting in his sweating, trembling hands.

* * *

 **The Elysion Fields, 15:23**

Nearly scalding to the touch, the barrel of Simon Corta's M-36 was smoking from the heat it had built up during the continuous contact with Zeke. Slotting a fourth power pack into his Kantrael's square magazine well, Corta swept the three dud packs away from where he had dropped them at his feet. All were useless to him now.

Like a swarm of ants with automatic rifles, Zeke had exercised a numbskull's perception of battlefield tactics, having charged pell-mell at the Cadian positions with zero regard for their enemy's combined firepower. Singularly, the M-36 Kantrael was like any other individual combat weapon, albeit with a greater capacity than contemporary kinetic small arms and packing a modest rate of fire for the standard-issue service weapon of the Imperial Guard. As a collective mass, it dominated the engagement, cutting through the endless ranks of traitor Guardsmen, like a scythe through wheat, sweeping the plain clear of enemy. Not knowing if his own lasgun was doing any good, Corta tried to make sense of what was happening on the flanks, receiving an earful of noise every time a Knight discharged its thirty-millimetre rotary cannon or the 106, operated by Colvin and another Cannon, punched a hole in the human waves with rounds of HE. No good. In the thick of it, all order crumbled and confusion reigned. The only straightforward fact was that Zeke was in front of Corta; and he shouldn't have been.

After nearly half an hour of constant contact with the enemy, Zeke's momentum began to flag. At once, the Cadian companies in front of C and R Company seized the brief respite in both hands and used it to either reload or distribute ammunition to comrades.

"Did we win?" Wharton said, his voice faintly off to Corta's right.

Patting at his protesting ears, Corta screwed up one side of his face and shook his left hand. He was sure it was scalded from where it had held the M-36. He hadn't expected to go through so many power packs. The three he had spent equated to 450 shots, all on single-fire too. Gaping at the patches of blackened grass underneath the confirmed Zekes, which had been set alight by the savage heat of the particle beams fired between the belligerents, Corta shook Wharton by the shoulder, giving him a firm but sincere look of encouragement. Flinching when stray rounds fired by Zeke paid them farewell, Wharton clawed at the straps of his vox-carrier, bringing the set around to his front and checking for damage.

"All good?"

"Ehh, all good, Mister Corta." Wharton squinted up through the dust at his officer.

 _Could do with that angel right about now_ , Corta thought, remembering the form-fitting golden armour the woman wore, and the rose petals that fell around her. _Was she really an angel?_

Corta's daydream was cut short when Colonel Glumen dashed over from the general's headquarters. With no exchange of pleasantries, Glumen clapped Corta on the shoulder and shouted in his face. "I need your vox operator to come to Brigade Headquarters at once!"

"Yes, sir. Wharton, you're going with the colonel," Corta shouted. "Most kosh."

Dismayed etched on his dirty face, Wharton swallowed upon a dry throat, hurriedly folding his antenna down and dragging the harness holding the 14-pound vox over his shoulders. Running nearly bent-double after the colonel, Wharton soon found himself in the centre of General Creed's headquarters. The general himself, M-36 slung over his shoulder, was glassing the grey haze that had formed from all the dust, smoke, and propellant, awaiting Zeke's resurgence. It was not the general whom Wharton had been summoned to, but an officer of the Imperial Navy. The why became clear – quite starkly so – when Wharton noticed the previous signaller lying on the ground with pieces of a wrecked vox covering his body, and white, jagged bone sticking out of his hip.

Pulling Wharton down onto one knee, the Navy officer shouted something about the set Wharton carried.

"Sorry, sir?" Wharton's ears were still ringing. This was not the case with the Navy man, who wore tiny earplugs in both ears and had no such auditory problems.

"Is that vox serviceable?" the officer cried. "Tell me, Guardsman!"

"Yes, sir." Wharton unhooked the receiver and gave the bag holding it to the officer. "I'm Lance Corporal Wh—"

"Silence!"

Gathering a ball of spit in his mouth, the officer spat it out on the ground then blew several times into the handset. "Scorpio, this is Carroba. Requesting immediate close air support."

"Get me all the air support you can, Lieutenant," the general shouted. "Our enemy renews his strength. He is far from beaten. Recite this phrase: damnos, freno, perpurgo!"

Trying to make himself small, Wharton jerked his head up when the wind altered direction, drawing back the curtains to reveal the enemy's enlivened assault. Shielding his eyes, Wharton mouth fell open when he saw Nathaniel streaming towards him. Storming forwards in full-strength companies – not squads – the Chaos Marines, bedecked in the blackest armour, trimmed with gold, brought Wharton's fear rising to the surface.

The request for aerial bombardment, and the uttering of the code-words, was answered immediately by Marine ARA – aerial rocket artillery. "Carroba, this is Scorpio Three-One. Four Thunderhawks, bombs, promethium, and guns. Please key your mike for a steer."

"Roger, Scorpio. Your target is heavy concentration of enemy troops just to our west. We want you to come in first with your bombs, then your promethium, then your guns on whatever we see that's still moving around out there."

"Affirmative, Carroba," the Marine flight commander replied crisply. "We are ready for your smoke."

"Roge. Smoke going out."

Ripping a yellow-coloured smoke grenade from where it hung on a D-ring on Wharton's webbing, the FAC primed the smoke and lobbed it underarm, in the direction of the company directly in front of Brigade Headquarters.

"Carroba, Scorpio Three-One. I observe yellow smoke. I say again: yellow smoke."

"That's affirmative, Scorpio. Bring your ships in!"

Rocketing in from the north, the four Thunderhawks, line astern, let loose clusters of 500-pound bombs from underneath their wings, dropping them straight on the noses of Nathaniel, devastating the vanguard element with high explosive; the force lifting some Marines off their feet in a flurry of severed limbs and rent power armour. Rolling in behind the Thunderhawks, a flight of Stormravens, at the heed of their larger cousins, rattled off barrages with their heavy bolters, stitching the ground with savage trails of 25-millimetre shells.

With the entirety of Brigade Headquarters firing over the heads of the line companies with their M-36s, Wharton joined in, firing optimistic two and three-round bursts from his Lecta, until it jammed. Unable to clear it – suspecting dirt had become caught inside, courtesy of Dranno's excursions, Wharton had to contend with sitting back and watching. He had a grandstand view of the carnage unfolding upon the Elysion Fields. Black smoke and walls of fire from silver, six-foot-long canisters of promethium obscured Nathaniel's advance. The very ground underneath Wharton's feet was heaving and jumping to the explosions of rockets, 250 and 500-pound bombs, promethium, 25-millimetre cannon shells and white phosphorous. Some Marines, despite their armour being bathed in the burning liquid that stuck like glue, kept on coming, howling either from pain or from bloodlust, jamming their fingers down upon the triggers of their bolters, in one last vain attempt to take some of the hated enemy down with them.

The FAC, his handset jammed into his ear, called to the fighter-bombers and gunships, still circling overhead, stacked up in queues every thousand feet. "One more five-hundred-pounder very, very close to kill any Marines left out there."

A Thunderhawk obliged, delivering the coup-de-grace with a single 500-pound bomb that fell inside the swirling, hellish inferno, watched by Wharton. Beside him, the FAC congratulated the flight leader enthusiastically. "Superb job there, Scorpio. That's exactly what we wanted. The ground commander sends his compliments."

"Carroba, be aware. Chaos Space Marine drop pods have fallen inside the western curtain wall. You are cut off from your headquarters. Advise you set up a landing zone and form a perimeter, facing outwards, to await evacuation."

"They're going to come from behind us." Wharton heard the mutter.

"Colonel, they're going to come from behind us!" The FAC shrieked, wrenching the coiled cable attached to Wharton's vox along, hauling him over on to his shoulder. "Colonel."

Batting the anxious FAC's hand away, Colonel Glumen calmly informed the general of the new developments.

"I want round-the-clock air cover, Lieutenant. Can the Imperial Fists provide?" Creed said to the FAC.

"Yes, sir. We have planes stacked up at every thousand feet – from four to eleven-thousand. They'll cover us whilst we form a perimeter, sir."

"Colonel, I want Lieutenant Corta to carry a message to General Rebbeck. Pass him my compliments and a request that he sends any available troops he has to my position. You yourself will take command of R Company in the meantime."

His heart jumping, Wharton got rid of his vox carrier, leaving it and the set with the FAC. "Colonel, I'm Lieutenant Corta's signaller…"

"You, Corporal, take this." Creed removed the gorget he wore and slapped it into Wharton's hands. "For your officer. Now, return to him and make sure he gets it."

"Yes, sir!"

"You know what you have to do?"

"General Rebbeck. Reinforcements. Sir!"

Free from the shoulder-bruising weight of the vox, Wharton scampered down to Corta and blurted out the general's orders, passing the gorget to him. It prompted Corta to call the nearby grunts over. Now down to eleven men, Corta's pockets were considerably heavier with his men's ID tags. Wharton could tell that his officer was secretly relieved that Creed was sending him back. What the general had not stated though, was whether or not he had to go alone.

 _This is it_ , Wharton thought as he crammed in to the back of the Corvo with the other Cannons, grabbing hold of the 106's mount to keep himself from being thrown off. _Let it end soon. Let us be saved._

Eclipsing the sun, the darkness now held dominion over Cadia, the shadow of evil blanketing the doomed planet the Cadians had fought so hard for. Victory now was an impossibility. Riddled dearly, the iron walls of Cadia had cracked and burst in too many places for individual units like The Lord Castellan's Own to shore up. The strength of the enemy was too great. His numbers unending.

Neither Cadia, nor the fate of the Cadian brigades were on Corta or Wharton's minds as they bumped and bounced away from 8 Brigade, which was slowly manoeuvring to form a wide circular perimeter around the ground they had taken. Nothing took greater priority now than plain and simple survival.


	46. Chapter 45

**IMT Ionia, Deck Six Amidships, 15:22**

Leading Aimo down a narrow companionway, Ral Bleak let out an oath under his breath and paused mid-way down the stairs, unsure if he should descend into the flock of Cadians crowding the mess which was jam-packed, to such an extent, that the floor could not be seen.

"We alright, Ral?" Aimo, on the step above him, asked uncertainly.

"Uhh, yeah. Lot of Cadians down here with us."

"Bollocks to that. Think I might get my scran elsewhere…" Aimo snorted, trying to turn around on the step. "Back up the line with us."

"Come on, ya goit." Tom nudged Aimo's backside with his toe. "Bloody starving, I am."

"Don't." Joe glared. "I'll make you sit down."

"Just about kill me, that will," Tom retorted. "Oi, leave my arse outta this, will ya. What's it ever done to you?"

"Joe, you still got Peter back there with you?" Ral, still stationary, said.

"He's just behind me, mate. C'mon, let's move it along here. We're holdin' up the queue."

Groans and murmurs of discontent were floating down the packed passageway, prompting Ral to lead Aimo down the last few steps and onto the floor of the mess-hall.

"Eurgh, what's that about?" Aimo placed the back of his hand against his nose. "Haven't wandered into the bog, have we?"

"Nah, ssh. Don't draw attention, Aimo," Ral whispered, trying to guide Aimo through the heavy throng of Guardsmen. "We're not 'ere for trouble, lad. Let's just grab some scran and char, then iggery back up to where we were."

"Mm, I wouldn't want to stay down here either. Not with these scumbags sharing our air," Aimo whispered.

"Yeah. But I want to be above everyone else in case we go down."

As he said it, Ral felt his stomach tighten. Gripped in an invisible embrace, Ral's stomach shied away from its previous pleading for sustenance. Quite suddenly, Ral's desire for food – in large helpings – evaporated. Glancing at the trays of jam-covered toast and sliced grox meat that had been laid out by the mess staff, Ral imagined the grox meat was human flesh, and the bright red jam, blood.

"That's a woman!" Tom gasped. "Shit it, I'd never thought I'd see a real one again."

"Thank god he got zipped in the arse…" Aimo tittered.

"Joe, keep Tom on a leash," Ral muttered.

Tom's attention had been snatched by a nurse, a member of the Officio Medicae, who was pouring tea from a copper-coloured pot into tin mugs belonging to Guardsmen that were lucky enough to be seated at tables. Dressed in grey fatigues and a clean white apron, the nurse nodded and smiled at the attention the seated Cadians were giving her, offering little, if any, reply to the grimy, oil-streaked, bare-headed soldiers. With clean skin and thick, dark hair piled upon her head, the nurse was attracting the eyes of many of the men and women. Something Tom had missed though were the many female Cadians that he had passed on the way down to the mess. With their hard cover, berets, and shaven heads, they appeared no different from their male colleagues unless scrutinised. Tom and, for that matter everybody, seemed to have forgotten what a real woman looked like in the time they had been on Cadia. The nurse, to everybody, was a reminder of safety, peace, and happier times.

"I got him, Ral," Joe said. "Keep your lad lowered, Tom. Be plenty of nice girls after you on Haven or Belis Corona."

Reaching behind him, Joe pulled the mute Peter along. "Come on, Peter. Let's get you a drink and a bite. Ral, can you find something for the lad?"

"Hold on." Ral pushed between two Cadians and scrabbled for a metal tray holding slices of toast, working his fingertips over the rounded edge and dragging across the table towards him, hoping to pass some toast back to Aimo and the others.

"Leave that tray." A Cadian NCO – a corporal – slammed his hand upon the tray, startling those sitting around him. "For Guardsmen only, off-worlder."

"I'm a medic. He's my charge," Ral said flatly, refusing to bow to the Cadian's demand. "We haven't eaten since—"

"Cadians only!" The corporal drew his combat knife from beneath the table and plunged the point of the blade through the thin tray, pinning it to the table just out of Ral's reach. "Only Guardsmen that fought can eat."

"Oi, what d'you think this is?" Aimo, outraged, stepped up next to Ral, placed both of his tightened fists on the table and leant on them. Working a finger underneath his dressing, Aimo lifted it up granting everybody, seated and standing, a view of his eyes. Ral alone did not look directly at Aimo, only catching a blurred glimpse in the corner of his eye.

Unmoved, the Cadian corporal yanked his knife from the tray and slid it away from Ral. "Cadians only," he said quietly.

"Cadia for the Cadians," another added.

"Cadian blood fuels the Imperium."

"Cadia stands."

Sensing he would be beating his head against a brick wall if he persisted further, Ral took Aimo by the shoulder and guided him away from the table, ears burning to the snorts of derision and sour remarks given by the Cadians.

"Any luck?" Joe, supporting Tom and still holding on to Peter, said hopefully.

"Not a crumb or a drop." Ral scowled.

"No joy either. It's too packed in here."

Paying no notice of any Guardsmen that might have been in earshot, Ral cursed the elitist Guards, pointing Joe back up the companionway, wanting to leave the Cadians' company as quickly as possible.

"Never gonna eat with Cadians anyway…" Aimo laughed coldly. "Give us a hand up the stairs, mate… mate?"

Used to the gentle rumble of the ship's engines underneath his feet, Ral felt a slightly more vigorous tremble, one he had not felt before. Standing idle with Aimo at the foot of the companionway, Ral, frowning, noticed a surface of water in a tin mug through a gap between arms. It was shaking.

" _Go. Go_." Ral swallowed, the knot wrenching his stomach into a horrid, twisted ball. " _Go, Aimo_."

"Uh, problem?" Aimo asked, none the wiser.

Chancing a look at the gathering around him, Ral realised it was only him who had noticed the odd rumble. If anybody else had realised what was happening, they had not shown it.

 _Don't want to be trapped down here with the Cadians, if we're going down,_ Ral thought, keeping a supporting hand on Aimo's back as they clambered back up to the corridor running above the mess.

"Ral, what's up?" Aimo persisted.

"Shush, did you feel it?"

"What, that tremor?"

"Yeah. You know what I think?"

"What?"

"The Marines left us. We're on our own."

"Aw, bloody hell. Just our luck. First the Cadians, now the Marines." Aimo thumped his fist against his thigh in frustration. "Why's it everyone seems to hate us?"

Reaching the corridor, Ral and Aimo followed Joe, Tom, and Peter to the right then up a second companionway to an identical corridor on the floor above. The lower decks of _Ionia_ were near-uniform in their layout. It was only the top-most decks, where the well-off travelled, that possessed anything remotely in the way of furnishings. And the grunts had not been beyond deck four, having no idea what the decks above were like.

The thuds Ral heard above and below him now could very well have been weights being dropped on the decks. This hopeful, optimist's outlook did not appear to be the general consensus amongst the soldiers and sailors lining the corridors, almost all of whom were looking around at each other, not knowing what to do. The five-man party, as powerless as every other man and woman aboard, listened and waited as the thuds on _Ionia's_ hull grew louder more torturous.

* * *

"How many is that now?"

"Twelve Chaos Interceptors, bearing two-zero-four. They're coming up on our port beam, sir," Gartlan Mallis calmly reeled off to Captain Averell. "At present velocity, they'll have missile range in five minutes, fourteen seconds, sir."

Strapped in to his command chair, Averell turned to his communications officer. "Have the Marines answered our hails?"

"No, sir. Requests for escort, I have sent out constantly. No Marine callsigns have replied, sir," the comms officer replied. "Phalanx's wings are unavailable at this time."

"Pilot. At present velocity, how long until we leave Cadia's atmosphere?"

"At present velocity, sir, we will be in orbit in twenty-seven minutes, twenty-one seconds," _Ionia's_ pilot said. "Engines are hard-pressed to achieve optimal velocity with our gain in mass, sir. Central reactor temperature is nominal."

 _What's the old man going to do?_ Mallis wondered, glancing behind Averell at the motionless navigator. _Fat lot of good he'll do if we can't break atmo. There's not a chance in the warp that Ionia will make orbit, with these hounds biting at her heels._

Rubbing his thumb around the tip of his forefinger, Averell made a snap decision, surprising Mallis. "Pilot, give me a bearing that puts us on a collision course with the interceptors. I want maximum velocity. Push the engines."

Accessing the personal comm built into his chair, Averell called for the ship's chief enginseer, who was stationed in the ship's central core. "Chief Enginseer, re-route all non-essential power to the void shield. I want everything covering our bows. When I give the order, encompass the ship once more then standby to angle the shields on my mark."

"Yes, Captain," the enginseer said.

His confidence in his captain never-wavering, Mallis monitored the twelve specks coming in from the north-east, perched on the edge of his seat in excitement. The five minutes dragged by at the agonisingly slow walking speed of the present navigator. All the while Mallis kept an eye upon the interceptor squadron which was taking its time in loosening its formation. _Aah, we're helpless and they know it. Ionia_ did not possess any offensive weaponry, having been stripped and pressed into military service on Haven only two weeks previously. In the absence of a fighter escort, she was a fat, lame duck, ripe for plucking.

"Fighters are fifty klicks out. We are now being actively tracked, sir," Mallis said, a lump rising in his throat. A second later, the radar gave off a warning that multiple missiles were now locking on to the ship's signature.

"They've fired, sir. Range is fifty klicks. Warhead speed is Mach 3."

"Thank you, Number One. Pilot, maintain current heading. Give me as much speed as you can."

"Aye, sir," the pilot replied. "Heading zero-one-three. The chief enginseer can provide enough thrust to take us up to 400 knots."

"Do it."

Able to observe the exact location of the incoming fighters, Mallis looked to his right, out of the sloped viewport in front of the two pilots. At _Ionia's_ current altitude – twenty-eight thousand feet – she should have been out in the bright sunlight, and cutting a path through the clear, purple sky at the shallow angle she would take to breach the lower atmosphere. The presence of deep cloudbanks however prevented any visual scrutiny from occurring.

"Ten seconds to impact, Captain," Mallis said out loud.

"Understood, Number One." Averell kept his eyes straight ahead. The only sign of apprehension he gave was the slightest muscle spasm in one cheek. "Now hear this. Now hear this." Averell addressed the ship's passengers and crew with the calmness only a naval officer could adopt in a moment of crisis. "All hands, brace for impact."

Bright flashes – miniature suns – bathed Ionia's scoop-shaped prow in blinding white light. Buffeted with violent intensity, the bridge rocked as the laser proximity fuses of the swarm detonated, filling the air in front of _Ionia_ with lethal fragments, peppering the thickly-shielded bows with thousands of white-hot shards of steel.

"Damage rep!" Averell barked. "Chief Enginseer!"

"Void barriers are holding at thirty-seven per cent, Captain. Another impact of this scale will shut the generator down."

"How long until you can raise our barriers again?"

 _What are we doing, sir?_ Mallis was fully aware of the peril that the ship was in now. Without shields or weapons, they were dead. No amount of manoeuvring could affect the outcome. And they were still a way away from reaching the comparative safety of vacuum; but that was only if their assailants themselves could not leave the atmosphere.

"Thirty-four minutes and nine seconds, Captain," the enginseer replied matter-of-factly, and without a shred of concern.

 _Let's put down before we're shot down,_ Mallis thought _,_ relinquishing his passive lock of the still-distant fighters, and broadening his sweep of the war-raped expanse of Cadia Secundus, 28 000 feet below. _Averell bargained a lot by casting us up into the unknown like this. Now all six-thousand-plus of us are getting kicked in the groin because of it._

Ignoring the back-and-forth between the bridge crew, the captain, and the chief enginseer, Mallis searched, imagining the gathering clouds of scavengers that would shortly be swarming the ship, and the carnage they would wreak upon her. No, there was no question of trying to leave the planet now. With no escort, _Ionia's_ only option was to turn back towards the surface and look for a landing site. The question of finding one and setting down safely gnawed at Mallis. The enemy's intervention would prevent that. _We'll need to belly-land,_ he decided. _Carry out a controlled landing with the gear up then go from there._

"Number One, what are those fighters doing?" Averell called.

"Sir, I think I've found us a good LZ…" Mallis returned his attention to his radar, swearing quietly at the new heading the enemy fighters were now on. "Enemy fighters have split their numbers, sir. Half a dozen are rolling up our port and starboard flanks." Warnings had appeared on the radar as more missiles were locked and launched. "Missiles in the air, sir. Eight of them."

 _Throne, we're really up the creek now._

"Pilot, take us down," Averell ordered. "Give me a heading for Kraf Airbase."

"Sir, I have an alternate."

"Number One?"

"An alternate LZ, sir. We won't make Kraf without getting shot up by those fighters. I propose we carry out an emergency landing."

Mallis passed the grid reference to Averell's chair.

"By the God-Emperor, you would have us land there?" Averell exclaimed.

"Yes, sir. Lake Scutula."

Deep, successive booms sounded throughout the ship as the missiles struck the fading void shield, wiping it out entirely, leaving _Ionia_ naked. The decision now rested with Captain Averell. All eyes now turned to him.

"Pilot, process this grid reference," Averell rapped out, wasting no time now that Mallis had given him his only viable option.

As the pilots corrected _Ionia's_ heading, damage reports began flooding in. Hull breaches, decompression of sections, and power failures were happening all at once. Bucking and shuddering, _Ionia_ began the descent northwards after banking hard to port. Above the growing noise, Mallis heard Averell give the order for the civilians aboard to be loaded into the ship's tiny handful of life craft and jettisoned with hope they would remain unnoticed by the enemy fighters that had interest only in bringing the mammoth troopship down.

 _Emperor preserve_ , Mallis prayed, his eyes on the spinning altimeter beside his radar, the digits counting rapidly down to zero. _All six-thousand of us._

* * *

 **The Kriegan Gates, 15:37**

Parked in the shadows of the inner gatehouse, Simon Corta waited with Wharton and the others for Colvin and Arrigo to return from their recce inside the curtain wall. Deterred by the knowledge that drop-pods had fallen inside the city limits, Corta had ordered a halt inside the gatehouse and taken cover to wait for the team to have a look up in the warren of tunnels and passageways.

Crouched next to the silent Corvo, Corta listened to the distinct thumping repetition of bolters that he could hear going off in the Solarus district to the east, and the lighter, less prevalent crackle of las and rifle fire replying. _Nathaniel terrorising the stragglers, no doubt._

Sparing little sympathy for the unfortunates caught up in a contact with Nathaniel, Corta rested the dirty stock of his M-36 in the churned-up muck and used his free hand to lift up the metallic gorget that was sitting against his chest. _Funny thing. Is it supposed to shield me from gunfire?_

The subaltern's ponderings were cut short when a hand stuck itself out from the opening that led to the stairway, just past the eastern end of the gatehouse. "Mister Corta!" Colvin called softly, waving.

Concerned at the others' jumpiness, Colvin had held back from hurrying out into the open, fearing he might be shot accidentally by the tightly-wired grunts.

"Come on in," Corta sang out, keeping his voice low.

Breaking away from the stairs, Colvin vaulted over a low wall of sandbags, followed by Arrigo and two others. Colvin and Arrigo's ammunition pouches, as with everybody else's, were empty and flattened against their chests; all cartridges were now expended, leaving only half-charged power packs for the Kantraels, and a handful of grenades. Colvin, having taken Wharton's assault weapon along, now passed the cleared Lecta back to him, exchanging it with the M-36 Wharton had.

"Well, Colvin?"

"Had a dekko, sir. There ain't no-one up there. All the Cadians must've cleared out," Colvin replied, wiping his nose on his sleeve, casting around himself nervously. "Got some nasty feeling Zeke's snuck in somewhere…"

"Did you hear anything. Anything at all?"

"Nah, nothing. Just a gut feeling."

Rubbing his stubbly chin with the side of his hand, Corta patted the flank of the Corvo. "We're on foot from here. These wheels'll ring the dinner bell for Nathaniel, sure as sure."

"106 is out anyway." Colvin shrugged. "So, we headed for the evac points?"

"Our orders were to fetch reinforcements from Headquarters." Wharton gave Colvin a dark look. "Bastion One. That's what the general said."

"Aw don't tell me you're sucking Cadian dick now, mate."

"Fuck you, Col. Bloody leave off, alright?" Wharton shoved at Colvin with both hands, his sudden ferocious outburst upsetting Colvin's balance.

"That's enough, Wharton!" Corta thumped Wharton's shoulder. "We're all hungry, we're all tired, we're all fed up. It's not just you, okay?"

"Mmm, we're never gonna get—"

"C'mon, pal, we all need you clear-headed." Rhidian, kindly, knelt next to Wharton and put a friendly arm around his shoulders. "Lotta mates are counting on you. Let's not let them down now."

Grunting, Wharton apologised shame-facedly, accepting the M-36 Rhidian picked up from where it was lying on the ground.

Bringing in the others with hand signals, Corta showed Colvin to the point and pointed him out of the gatehouse. " _Move out_ ," he mouthed.

The cacophony of the rearguard in contact with Zeke and Nathaniel spiked in noise the moment the grunts left the protection of the gatehouse, reaching peculiar levels, where it was not just heard, but felt.

 _God, they're all around_ , Corta realised, calling a quick halt to listen to the panicked, confused screams of the Cadians, hurling expletives and questions back and forth in the firestorm of battle that was now bathing Solarus in flames. They had not yet gone fifty yards but could hear, quite clearly, the wallops and bangs of mortars and rockets, as well as the occasional rumble of buildings collapsing in on themselves. Squatting next to the husk of a halftrack that carried the now-inoperable VAK gun that had fired on the company earlier in the day, Corta stretched out an ear, trying to pinpoint where the enemy was. In front of, and behind him, the Cannons braced the stocks of their M-36s in the ground, worry etched in their wretched faces, fingers caressing triggers in anticipation for the split-second's warning they wouldn't get before hell let loose upon them.

"We moving, sir?" Colvin, on point, fidgeted.

"Yeah – oi, don't look at me, look to your front, Col," Corta said. "Let's go. Watch your fields of fire. Don't want to be zipping Cadians."

Letting Colvin put ten yards between himself and the main body, Corta stood up slowly and followed Colvin along the jumbled row of derelict motor-transport Zeke had abandoned during his first excursion into Solarus. Bunched haphazardly, and all rendered completely unserviceable by gunfire, the M/T none the less offered good cover to the dozen grunts as they stole into the district, wary of the terror of Nathaniel, whose presence went hand-in-hand with the unmistakable slow chudder of hand-held bolters. Behind them, the curtain wall came under renewed bombardment, black smoke from a hail of 122-millimetre rockets carpeted the ravaged bastions, cutting off the Cannon's way out, leaving only the path ahead for them to tread.

Staying away from the wide-open plain where Dranno lay, Colvin led Corta and the others through the demolished buildings that ran parallel to the street. What were once barracks, habs, supply dumps, or manufactorums, had all become mirror images of each other. Just walls, windows devoid of their glass, and thin, bone-like supports where the roofs should have been. Whatever the buildings had held before, they were now filled with debris, stone, graffiti, and shards of razor-sharp glass; faded caricatures of their former glory.

Striking eastwards as the crow flies, their pace slowed to a crawl by the treacherous slopes of loose rubble that had formed hills inside the habs, the company trudged through piles of grey ash, their weary heads hung. Many of them were nearing their limits. Corta felt the same. His stomach was as empty as his ammunition pouches were, and he had a persisting thirst that aggravated his headache. Compounding his illusions about being cornered by Nathaniel was the image of the Sister in his mind. Selfish as it was to dwell upon the glimpses of her he had caught, when he should have had his men's well-being as first priority, a large fragment of Corta's mind was beset on picturing the strange majesty of the dark-haired, gold-clad woman. Who was she? What powers did she possess that brought the entirety of General Creed's headquarters to their knees in reverence?

Ordering another halt when Colvin reached the end of the row of buildings, Corta moved up next to his scout, and listened. Directly before them was a road and an open space thirty yards wide before the next slump of derelict structures that lay in their path. A metallic squeak behind Corta brought him around. A few Cannons, desperate for water, were crowding around a small tap that was poking out of the bricks. Rhidian had put his mouth underneath the tap. _Nothing doing_ , Corta thought sadly. _They'll have turned off the mains. Wouldn't want Zeke drinking Cadian water._ As he predicted, not a single drop fell, turning glum faces sour. Trying to suck moisture from the metal, Rhidian was pushed at by others, who wanted at least to feel the coolness inside their mouths.

Returning to Colvin, Corta listened out with him, trying to pick up any indicators of where the fighting was.

"Impossible," Colvin tutted. "Too much going on."

"Yeah, I hear you." Corta rubbed at his ears, still sore after the battle with Zeke and Nathaniel. The noises of the street fights were muffled somewhat by the tall buildings. Where he was, Corta could hear bolters, the deeper bang of a heavy automatic cannon, the rattle of tank treads, and once in a while a whir of hydraulics as a turret traversed. All of this hardware of course belonged to Nathaniel or Zeke. Corta did not believe that there was a single piece of friendly armour left in Kraf. All were either US or deployed upon the Elysion Fields in a pointless struggle to win a fight that was already lost. Here, in the dusty, wreckage-filled streets of Solarus, Zeke had complete control. Sometimes there were faint callouts as Guardsmen strove to find out which buildings Zeke had occupied, and which were still under friendly control. Glass shattering, walls and roofs collapsing, and screams rolled through nearby streets, many of which were eerily quiet, whilst others, adjacent, were subject to brutal melees between the Cadians, Zeke, Nathaniel, and the marauding armour. _Feels like the end of the world_ , Corta remarked gloomily.

"Make for that building across the street, sir?" Colvin pointed out of a doorway at the nearest building across the street, an armaments facility judging by the multitude of hazard and dangerous chemical signs that had fallen in the dirt from where they had been bolted to the outer walls.

"Okay, I'll cover you from this doorway. Arrigo, c'mere."

"Ain't no water, Mister Corta," Arrigo moaned. "We're thirsty 'ere."

"I know. I'm sorry, Arrigo. We're all thirsty here." Corta sighed. "I need you to cover the north, okay? Point your rifle out of the doorway at an angle and watch for Zeke. I'll cover the south. Ready, Colvin?"

" _Ho!_ "

"Okay, go!"

Scooting out into the street, his posture low, his M-36 held in one hand, Colvin made the open space and threw himself into the nearest opening of the manufactorum, nothing more than a hole blasted in the wall, and disappeared inside.

"Shit, where's he going?"

"S'alright. He'll be back." Corta hoped Colvin wouldn't try and scout the factory by himself. He had not a clue if Zeke was inside, or, for that matter, if Zeke or Nathaniel were even nearby, such was the extent and terrific volume of the small-arms' and heavier weapons' fire thundering through the streets.

A few seconds after losing sight of him, Corta saw Colvin reappear and wave at him to start sending over the other grunts. "Right, Rhidian, you go first. Move fast and low over to Colvin. Never mind the street. We're covering you."

"Okay, you'll cover me, won't you, Mister Corta?" Rhidian fidgeted worriedly.

"Course we'll cover you. Colvin's over there. Just make your way over to him as quickly and as quietly as possible. Now, off you go."

"Go on, pal, you can do it," Arrigo said. Other grunts gave their support as well, offering friendly nudges of encouragement. Aping Colvin, Rhidian took off across the street, bent low as he ran.

"There's a good lad." Corta nodded approvingly when Rhidian reached safety. "Right, next man."

Soon, the dozen had made it all across and inside the dim, dust-swept factory. Taking a set of narrow iron steps down to the floor below the street, Corta handed Colvin the point-man position and waited for him to scout the rooms ahead. The only light that came in was from windows above head height, looked out onto the street. Somehow the glass had remained intact but was dirty beyond belief, preventing any outwards observation.

 _No-one's been in here since the workers left,_ Corta thought, examining the dust and dirt that only Colvin's feet had marked. True, every single piece of machinery had been removed and carted off-world, leaving naked rooms of bare brick and strip lighting infested with dead flies. It was a shame that the efficiency of the uprooting of the infrastructure could not have extended to the masses of personnel still awaiting evacuation. Corta found it strange that the preservation of the manufactorum had been given a higher priority than that of the fighting men. _Rather puts the Imperium's value on individual lives in a darker light_ , he thought. _Now I understand. We're currency for them to waste._

Pausing to wait for Colvin's return, Corta felt a rumble in the street above. Hitching his M-36 on his shoulder, Corta clambered up on to an empty crate and wiped at the glass with the underside of his forearm. Through a pile of twisted beams that had been torn from the roof by bombs, Corta saw a booted foot crunch the road surface. It was no Zeke boot, but a chunky, power-armoured boot belonging to Nathaniel.

"What's out there, Mister Corta?" Rhidian asked.

What Corta initially believed was a small Marine patrol, turned out to be a full column, as Nathaniel after Nathaniel stomped past the window, flanking boxy Rhinos, bearing spikes and other ugly effigies of Chaos. _How the hell did they get there?_

" _Shush_. Quiet, down there. Nathaniel's outside!" Corta gestured furiously for silence and slipped down from his perch.

"Problem, Mister Corta." Colvin returned, looking pale and scared. "Reckon Nathaniel—"

" _He's right outside_ ," Corta whispered. " _No noise, now_."

" _Well, let's get out of here. Let's go_." A private, Danneck, near-feverish with fright, patted a mate of his, Gaverell. " _Maybe we get ahead of 'em, eh, Gav?_ "

" _No-one move. Stay down and wait for them to pass. Everyone!_ " Corta squatted with his back to the wall, drawing Colvin and Wharton down next to him. " _Rhidian, nice and low now!"_

Backing up beneath the window, the grunts watched the faint shadows pass by at their feet. Vibrations from the tracks dislodged dust from cracks in the plaster, spilling irritating little trickles inside collars. The ever-present judder of the 1100-pound, armour-clad Marines, seemed like a miniature earthquake was pounding the street above to dust.

 _Come on. That's it. Walk on by. Nobody hiding down here. No-one at all,_ Corta thought gingerly, clutching his M-36 close. Like it would make the slightest bit of difference if they were discovered. Arrigo fitting a serrated bayonet over his M-36's muzzle Corta glared at, miming for him to put it away. Confused, Arrigo opened his mouth but Corta silenced him with a finger on his lips.

"Mister Corta, can we—" Wharton began. Overhead, a shower of thick glass fragments rained down. Deep bangs of handheld bolters came from the street, their owners sending round after round of 19-millimetre gyrojet through the dirty glass, to burrow inside the wall opposite the grunts. And if that wasn't enough, a tenth of a second after the rounds punched holes in the wall, each one exploded, spraying dust and hot fragments outwards. Danneck's sudden outcry was almost lost over the din of the bolters. Clapping a hand over one eye, Danneck let go of his M-36. The tiniest piece of masonry had sliced into his tear duct, expelling a thin stream of blood that ran down his cheek. Frightened into inaction by the abruptness of the shooting, Corta, Wharton, and Colvin stared in horror. Gaverell, Rhidian, and the others next to Danneck tried to keep the poor man quiet, forcing their hands over his wounded eye and repeatedly shushing him.

"We gotta get out of 'ere, Mister Corta," Colvin gasped.

"Every man for himself now, I reckon," Arrigo whispered.

"No, shuddup. We stick together, right, sir?" Wharton looked to Corta for backing. "Sir?"

The clatter of a frag grenade, dropping onto the floor, scattered the grunts, as each man strove to make himself as small as possible. Gaverell, by Danneck's side, flung himself on to his belly, snatching at the smoking cylinder and throwing it through a doorway. The billow of grey smoke that rolled out was filled by shards of glass, as the bolters demolished what little remained fixed in the windowpanes. Harsh, mechanically-amplified voices screeched from outside.

" _Iggery, you lot!_ " Corta hissed, shoving at Colvin to lead off. " _Gaverell, help Danneck_."

A second frag grenade was followed by a third, breaking off glass panes and slapping against the floor.

"GET OUT! GET OUT!" Corta abandoned any further attempts at secrecy, dragging Wharton, the last man, out of the room and ducking away from the deadly bursts of shrapnel. "Colvin, get 'em out!"

Thumping the immobile grunts on the shoulders, Corta ran up to where Colvin was. "Right, men, follow me."

A terrific crash came from above, as the pintle batteries of the tracks – without a line of fire on the grunts – opened up, turning the ground floor of the manufactorum into a cauldron of flying lead. Now desperate to get ahead of the Marines, Corta flew through the basement, setting his shoulder into doors that would not respond to his kicks, hurtling through the manufactorum's underbelly.

Rushing past a doorway, the door of which had been blown off its hinges and was lying ten feet out in the street, Corta grabbed the edge to stop himself and thrust Colvin into a position where he could cover the men as they crossed.

"Colvin, you cover the south side. Arrigo, you cover the north – hurry!" Corta shouted urgently. A groan of tracks could be heard drawing near. The collective thunder of Nathaniel's boots were drumrolls conveying dour omens upon the grunts.

Gripping the outside of the broken wall, Corta leant back, shouted, "I'm going!" then ran at a forty-five-degree angle towards a narrow, high-sided alley, twenty yards across the street and fifteen yards to the left. Reaching it unscathed, Corta grasped the corner of the alley, unslung his M-36, and took aim towards the south. "Next one, come!"

"Contact. Nathaniel track!" Colvin cried, leaning further out from his position to aim at the nose of a Rhino that had rolled out of the mouth of a street to the south. Standing up in the Rhino's cupola, a Marine, clad in the same deep black as his fellows on the plains were, raised a pair of macrobinoculars and swept both directions the street ran in, passing over the frozen grunts with nary a remark.

"Come on." Corta beckoned.

"They haven't seen us, sir," Colvin shot back.

The track commander appeared relaxed, and not at all wary of the rogue pocket of Imperial Guardsmen his comrades had just fired upon. The 25-millimetre sitting on the pintle next to him was tilted downwards. Losing its gusto, the Rhino's engine fell from the throaty roar.

Raising a palm, Corta signalled the others to hold their position. With luck Nathaniel might turn south and leave them alone. After all, what were a dozen wandering imperials to them?

Cautious, not at-ease, the track commander had halted to wait for infantry to fling themselves out in front of him, whereupon he began to edge forwards. A lone Marine, a squad or platoon leader possibly, though his armour prevented identification, leapt up onto the sloped bows of the lead track to confer with the commander; their discussion halting the column's advance. The choice of direction remained ambiguous before the Marine squad leader pointed over his right shoulder straight at Corta and mimed a punching fist.

Refusing to even wait for the Marine to disembark, the Rhino lurched forwards and spun to the left, the commander jerked backwards by the sudden gain in momentum.

"Hurry!" Corta shouted, trying to draw a bead upon the slowly growing number of Nathaniel, who, now-alerted, began leap-frogging in the grunt's direction, with some crashing through wreckage and flattening entire walls at the sides of the street with their bulk. Accurate, disciplined bolter-fire fizzed around the grunts. Trying to return fire but finding himself increasingly suppressed, Colvin kicked Rhidian away and sent him over to Corta, snapping off three unaimed shots that did nothing to reduce the growing intensity of Nathaniel's assault. Corta's M-36 too did nothing to deter the Marines. Corta's output stalled as Rhidian, unhit, slipped in behind him. Wharton sprinted over next, dirt from the Rhino's 25-millimetre battery kicking up in his face, heat from the passing projectiles warming his arms and legs.

"You two, check our way out's clear," Corta bellowed, ducking back in to cover when bolts skimmed the pock-marked concrete surface he was leaning against. Fear and excitement overflowing, Corta worked the trigger of his M-36, never mind his pitiful token of resistance was being mostly ignored by Nathaniel.

"Just one!" Corta glanced across at Colvin in horror when Danneck and Gaverell both burst from cover at the same time, with the latter helping the half-blinded former along. The bigger, slower target incited the Marines to ramp up their fire. Corta, helpless, let out a cry of anguish when Danneck was grazed by a bolt. Skimming the back of Danneck's knee, the bolt cut through bone, expelling a bright red mist behind him and putting him in the ground. Losing his grip on Danneck, Gaverell made to run on, then stopped and turned to go back for him.

"No, don't go back!" Corta fired madly, working his trigger finger until it hurt. "Leave him."

Hooking fingers underneath the shoulders of Danneck's flak jacket, Gaverell began dragging him towards Corta.

"No, wait, wait!" Corta screamed, when two more grunts careened across the street. One tripped and fell over his own feet. The other's expression turned to one of pained denial when explosions of blood bathed him in coatings of bright red. Hit in the body and arm, the 19-millimetre shells near-cleanly sliced his right arm off, leaving it handing by a threadlike tendon. Sprayed with the grunt's blood, Gaverell let out a shout, like a hound's bark, when he was caught in the horizontal storm of gyrojet buzzing along the street.

"You, get in here." Corta swiped at the grunt that had fallen along the way. "Get out of the street."

Arrigo, sensibly, left the three that had fallen in the open, and made it through the hail. Not even stopping to wait behind Corta, Arrigo flew after Colvin and Rhidian.

"Come on, Col. Come on!"

Harsh, distorted voices peaked above the walloping of the bolters. Nathaniel, drawing closer, was striding forwards without a care; refusing to even take cover behind the body of the track, aware his enemy was helpless. Ponderous, but no less deadly, the slow thump of the Rhino's 25-millimetre made unprotected ears bleed; the supersonic crack of the missed shots absolutely deafening.

Still trying to return fire, Corta was finally forced to withdraw when the track's battery traversed in his direction and blasted a bin-lid-sized chunk out of the wall beside him. Only two other grunts had made it to his position. The others he was forced to leave behind.

Squeezing through the narrow alleys, throwing constant frightened glances behind, the eight grunts fled Nathaniel. Leaving the maelstrom of noise behind, the oddly close air inside the warren was unnatural. Silent now, only the slap of bootheels and the panicky breathing of the eight lost soldiers could be heard. Spent, Corta finally called a halt when the firing had completely faded.

"Contact!" Arrigo screeched, firing wildly up into the sky.

Their nerve breaking, the others joined him in pouring particle beams up into the grey murk.

"Cease fire!" Corta raged, slapping at his ears when his hearing momentarily deserted him.

"What we firing at?" Rhidian, as confused as Corta, ran his muzzle around the sky.

"I can't see any fucking targets!" Wharton, the first to stop, thumped Arrigo on the back of his cover. "There's nothing there."

"Mister Corta, I swear." Arrigo cradled his M-36 against his chest, as if worried parting with it would mark him for death. "Big black wings. Big black wings."

"No-no. There's nothing." Corta shook his head, placing a firm hand upon the jumpy Arrigo's shoulder. "We're alright—"

"Alright? We just lost Danneck, Gav, Mowat, and Grio." Arrigo let his M-36 fall against his chest, placing both hands over his face and groaning. Gulping down air, Arrigo sobbed. "I want to stop."

"We can't stop here. I'm taking you to the evac points. Then we're leaving Cadia. All of us. D'you hear me? All of us."

* * *

 **The Citadel, 15:01**

Cheered by the turn in our luck, my optimism took a blow when Lusia informed me, with uncustomary bluntness, that she could not override the lockdown.

"Sorry, what?"

Stood on the step below where Lusia was examining a panel she had unsealed, I looked down at the others, grouped on either side of the stairs, waiting for the techpriestess to work another one of her miracles. It was Borens who broke the silence.

"What's the waitin' for?" he asked impatiently.

Both hands and appendages fiddling with the forest of wires, criss-crossing inside the panel, Lusia turned and looked over her shoulder at me. "I cannot override the lockdown without tripping the security system."

"Well, just—"

"It is not that simple. I cannot work miracles with a system using such encryptions. Cadian security is notoriously anal."

I snorted in surprise at the unexpectedly crass language.

"Impenetrable would be an appropriate term." Lusia withdrew her snaking appendages from the wires and quickly welded the plate shut with one of the crane-like arms attached to her backpack. Satisfied, Lusia picked up her axe from where it was leaning against the wall and faced me, smirking at the look I gave her. "Such language, you are alarmed at? Well, spank me if you must. But, I warn you, I am not that sort of girl."

Trying my best to keep the colour from my face, I held a finger upwards, displaying it to the others, and circled the air; hoping Izuru had not heard.

"Problem?" Cyrano asked, once Izuru and he had joined Lusia and I.

"Skinny is: Lusia can't unseal the door without tripping the security. Cadians have the ground floor tied down."

Pressing her Roga flat against her vest, muzzle pointed down, Izuru stared coldly at Lusia. "Then we retrace our steps and seek a secondary means of circumventing the lockdown. Come, priestess, withhold further childish remarks and show us the way."

"Okay, Izuru. Cyrano, what're your thoughts?"

"What Izuru said." Cyrano nodded. "Shall we leave conflict behind?"

"Yep, absolutely. Please, Lusia." I beckoned for her to lead the group back down the stairs. "Cyrano, on point with her, please."

Hefting her axe in both hands, Lusia strode through the group's midst, followed closely by Cyrano.

"Is that it then. We're goin' back?" Lorne asked.

"Yeah – _shh_ – just follow the Cadians off, lads. We'll bring up the rear, just get moving."

I let the others move away down the stairs before confronting Izuru. "Walk wi' me, yeah?"

"Be tempted not by that mech's charms," Izuru muttered. "False-flesh…"

"No-no, Izuru, there'll be no bullshit between you and Lusia, now. Make sense? Lusia's just playing. I reckon she hasn't worked with organics for a while. It's just a change in company for her. Let her act up. She's got us this far, and I'm thankful the Archmagos passed her over to us." Shrugging, I added, "she's no miracle-maker."

"Jealousy comes swift. It sickens me, thinking about it now."

"S'alright. I understand."

Lusia's route took us down a single flight of stairs and back out into a long corridor. Where we had come from one direction, Lusia now took us the opposite way. This seemed to mark the beginning of the end of our luck, when the group came swiftly back, Cyrano whispering loudly to Izuru and I that a patrol of Interior Guard was heading in our direction.

"Down the stairs, you lot." I jerked a thumb downwards. "Izuru, cover with me."

Lying flat upon the steps, I aimed around the chunky stone banister down the corridor, glad I did not have to switch firing hands again. Crouched above me, Izuru leant outwards, using her off hand to steady the Roga's vented handguard against the surface, straddling me as she did so.

"How're those sights?" I muttered.

"Unorthodox," Izuru replied tersely.

Vexed by Izuru's sour attitude, I came out with something I hoped that would take her off-guard. "You complete me."

Izuru offered no immediate reply. Only when Lorne and Borens were out of sight did she whisper, "let this experience be an education for you. On-the-job training, if you will. For what better training is there than learning-by-doing?"

"Mm-hm. And I'm grateful for everything you've done. You've my undying gratitude, Izuru. I want to keep learning from you, if you'll have me."

"I will gift you with knowledge, as you have gifted me—"

Spying the Interior Guard detachment marching around the corner into view, I interrupted. "Contact. Eight Interior Guard. See?"

"Seen. Withdrawing."

Waiting for Izuru to remove herself, I slid backwards and joined her on the stairs. "Oi, d'you remember the last time you was on top of me?"

"Enough. Cover our withdrawal."

Hopping down the stairs, two at a time, I continued, hoping to divert Izuru's attitude to me, as opposed to her dwelling upon her friction with Lusia. "I s'pose that was an on-the-job-training too? Just don't reckon you did a very good job, that's all. I dunno what I was doing. Just following you, I s'pose—"

Scrunching up my collar, Izuru thrust me against the wall at the foot of the stairs, her face livid.

"That's it," I gasped. "Look at me. You're angry with me. Be angry with me."

"That was deliberate!" Izuru spat.

"I don't want you spitting acid at Lusia now. Save that fire inside you for the Inquisitor. Either hate me or hate him. Don't turn it on any one else here. I can't let you do that."

The snarl twisting her mouth receding, Izuru moved her hand up from my neck to my cheek.

Winking, I grinned. "That's what I like. We argue, we fight, we hurt each other. Won't 'ave it any other way."

Briefly touching my lips, Izuru raised her rifle and aimed two fingers at the stairs. _Cover our withdrawal_.

"Yes, my lady," I murmured playfully, taking it in turns to cover and retreat after the others.

Lusia's route had brought the group down a smaller set of stairs to an ammunition stockpile. This storage facility, in a cavernous, dimly-lit chamber, was almost entirely empty of munitions, all having been used in the Citadel's anti-aircraft batteries or sent out to the frontlines. The massive rows of floor-to-ceiling brackets that would normally hold stacks and stacks of crates were bare, leaving only skeletons.

With the others hiding inside the shallow recesses in the angled walls, I crept up to the point, touching Lusia's shoulder when I reached her. "Okay, what have we got?"

Her voice a whisper, Lusia pointed out a control room that took up a quarter of the space inside the empty stockpile. "Be aware, that room is occupied."

"How many?"

"Estimate four to six logistics personnel. They have a full, unobstructed view of the facility from their position. What is more, there is stationary surveillance in all four corners of the chamber. Any movement will be picked up then the alarm will be raised."

"Yes. Seen. Where are we headed?"

"Heading around the corner, passing underneath the control room, it is a dead straight towards a set of ammunition lifts. We will ride the lifts up to the next floor. From there on, we must climb the shaft. There are steps set in the walls. It will be hard going, but it will take us above the lockdown."

"Understood. Do you have eyes on any other Cadian personnel?"

"Away down the aisle…" Lusia pointed down the sixth aisle, directly in front of us where, about thirty yards distant, a small party of Imperial Logistics Corps personnel were loading cans of small-arms ammunition – likely universal power packs – on to a flatbed railway car they would shortly cart round to the lifts.

"Clear that—"

"Clear that room first," I finished, signalling over my shoulder for Izuru to come up to my position.

Dispensing of any emotions, Izuru took in the plan with zero response, nodding once I had told her everything.

"Four-to-six enemy inside that control room. Do it quietly."

Moving her Roga around to her back, Izuru loosened her wraithbone knife in its sheathe and drew her Moses from her chest-holster. Easing off the tiny thumb safety, Izuru checked the chamber for brass. "Priestess, follow in my footsteps."

"Okay, Lusia, go with Izuru. I need you to find a way to work those lifts once she's cleared the premises for you. Off you go. Most kosh!"

Taking a small side passage just inside the facility, Izuru and Lusia scurried out of sight.

"Right, Highlanders," I whispered, pointing out the Cadian service troops to them. "Cover those guys down there."

I was not about to ask the Cadians to zip their own men. Though if they had reservations about Lorne and Borens lining up on their fellow ILC, they kept it quiet. As a precaution, I motioned Cyrano to remain at the rear with Azar and the analyst, just in case any of the four had a change of heart.

" _Alright, nice and easy now_. _Keep doin' what you're doin'_ ," I breathed, pressing my cheek against the cold steel of the Red Rifle's skeletal stock and lining up the front and rear sights. In low-light conditions, the tiny dots on both sights would glow, something I approved of.

A short _boom_ resonated from inside the control room. Quite audible, I swore quietly, gritting my teeth when a second gunshot sounded. The noise was not the worst part though. A torturous smack of lead against glass, and a round, jagged mark appeared in the window; the imprint left by a bullet. The crack brought the work party to a standstill. The nearest Cadian paused, two ammunition containers held in his hands, and glanced in our direction. Resting my sights on him, I tried guessing what he was saying. Mouths were moving, befuddled looks were being exchanged.

"Stand by," I said.

Across from me, his Molota deployed on its bipod, Lorne gave a thumbs-up. Lying next to Lorne, Borens opened up a satchel carrying spare magazines and waited.

"Don't," a voice behind me whispered. It was one of the Cadians.

"Uh?"

"We'll sort this, Sergeant. Let us go talk to them. We're ILC, remember?"

Realising how much more sensible this decision was, I agreed. "You're…?"

"Kasabo, Sergeant," the Cadian said. "I don't want any Cadian blood spilled today."

"Can't promise you that, mate. Sorry."

Straightening his beret, Kasabo hitched a Tova-54 machine pistol higher on his shoulder and called back to his mates. "Cadians, with me. We'll try and find some more ammunition as well, Sergeant."

"We're stocked to the gills, but ta anyway."

"Ya serious?" Lorne scowled, incredulous I was putting my trust in the service troops.

As the four strolled in the other service troops' direction, I said, "anything goes wrong, zip 'em."

"Aw, got some sense then," Lorne grunted.

Getting to my feet, I scuttled over to the control room passageway. "Moving across!"

"Come on!" Impatiently, Lorne lowered his muzzle when I moved across his field of fire.

"Izuru. Lusia?" I sang out softly, reaching the end of the passageway at the top of a short flight of stairs, and sweeping my muzzle in to the control room.

"Here," Izuru replied. "Room clear."

"Where are you?" I edged through the open door, taking in the slumped bodies of the Cadian logistics personnel. Three had not even managed to get up out of their chairs before falling to Izuru's knife. One, lying on his belly, had a nasty exit wound in the back of his skull. The entirety of it having been blown outwards. Blood, grey brain matter, skin, and hair was sprayed across the control panels. I could not see what the damage was to his face. The only other confirmed was a fifth man. A laspistol was held in his slack fingers. He sat just underneath the damaged glass, a hole in the back of his throat. Where he had fallen back against the window and slid downwards, a thick, bright red trail of blood ran.

"Who—?" I tensed when a handgun was aimed around a corner at me. "Izuru?"

"James." Appearing, her Moses trained on me, Izuru raised her sidearm and showed me her other hand. "I am unhurt."

Dropping the Red Rifle's muzzle, I asked for Lusia.

"Behind me."

"Okay, Lusia, get to work."

Disgruntled by the dead Cadians around her, Lusia's mouth was a thin line of contempt.

"He went for a weapon. There was no time to revise my aim," Izuru said, holstering her Moses. "Thankfully, the round did not penetrate the glass."

"Doesn't matter. You and Lusia are fine."

"The Cadians down there…"

Touching Izuru's shoulder, I explained our plan. "Kasabo and the other three are gonna go down there and talk to 'em. Both groups are ILC. Maybe they'll bring us some more ammo too, yeah?"

"Well thought." Izuru smiled.

"Beats zipping 'em, I can tell ya. Anyway, it was Kasabo that came up with it. Hats off to him."

"Concerns of treachery?"

"The Highlanders have a stubber with a clear line of sight in them. We're okay."

"Very good."

"Do you mind letting Cyrano and Azar know. I'll hang on here. Make sure Lusia's set up."

"At once." Izuru brought her Roga around her body and took off.

Adjusting my rifle's sling around my neck, I waited for Lusia to familiarise herself. Pouting, the techpriestess set to work in a lacklustre manner, half-heartedly tapping on buttons with her fingers. Both coiled appendages and the arms hanging over her shoulders were still.

"Okay?"

"No." Lusia slapped the surface hard. "You know, I envy you humans. If I could weep, I would."

"This was necessary—"

"There was absolutely no remorse. Not a trace of it in her eyes. Your xenos is an _assassin_ , Sergeant."

Fuming at Lusia's sudden sentimentality, I leant over and jabbed a finger at her. "Oi, listen, that's exactly what she is. An' I couldn't have survived Nemtess without her. Prob'ly woulda take on real estate 'ere without her too. She's saved countless lives 'cause she's just that. A bloody assassin."

"This is procedure for her, isn't it? I fear a being that has become so used to committing these deeds, that _murder_ is normalcy."

"It's not like that, Lusia—"

"If you continue to keep the company of a dangerous xenos, you will have your comeuppance."

"Lusia, she's got children…"

"As did I!"

"Sorry. If you want to have this moral discussion, save it for after we've wasted the Inquisitor. That's who we're 'ere for, Lusia. Remember?"

Lusia's pale eyes had dimmed underneath her scarlet hood. "I will not be part of this death-squad you run," she said quietly, "begone."

 _Death squad! Is that what we've really become?_

"We're on your side, Lusia," I said, patting her shoulder.

"But is she?"

Peering around the corner, I whistled to Izuru, who had taken cover behind a crate of warheads underneath the control room. "Okay, how are the Cadians doing?" I asked hurrying over to her.

"They are performing."

Putting my eye to a tiny gap between two boxes, I watched Kasabo and the others chat to the other Cadians. The latter's suspicion Kasabo had placated. All four were now assisting their fellow service troops in stacking ammunition onto the railway cars.

"Good-oh. Let's hope they bring 'em round here before them Cadians do."

Twisting, I motioned for the Highlanders, Cyrano, and Azar to move up to our position. "Won't be enough room here. Moving ahead."

"Caution. There is no useable cover between here and the tracks," Izuru warned. "Hold your position."

"I need to see the lift."

"Hold. Once the Cadians have wheeled the ammunition up, use it as cover and move along with it."

"Okay. Understood."

It seemed the Cadians were intent on proving their worth to us – most likely averse to the Highlanders callously zipping their comrades-in-arms – instead seeking a discreet, peaceful means of proceeding.

"Well done, lads." I applauded silently when Kasabo, with Gunnel, Arken, and Mrenk, hauled the cart down the rails, joining the pair of tracks that led to the lifts. Choosing my moment, I broke free of cover and rushed over to the stacked cart, at last getting a good look at the lifts. There were two of them mounted on two pairs of rails that ran up the wall, on a not-quite-vertical-slope, until both disappeared into narrow shafts near the ceiling.

"Okay, stop."

Setting their backs into the monstrous weight of the fully-loaded cart, the Cadians stopped it, allowing me to wave the others over.

"Right, put your backs in to it, lads."

Heaving the cart onwards, the service troops had it soon in place inside the lift's confines. Panting at the raw force needed to shift the cart, the Cadians were leant against the railing or bent double; all four spent.

"Good work, Cadians," I said.

"Next time, you're doing the labour," one of them coughed.

"Arken, is it?"

"I'm Gunnel."

"All youse look alike." Lorne laughed.

"Hey, aren't we forgetting someone?" Cyrano passed over heads. "The techpriestess!"

"She'll be along. Don't worry," I said confidently. "She's got control of the lift."

A _clunk_ came from beneath our feet, and the lift began to rise.

"C'mon, Lusia." I drummed my fingers on the body of my Kazalak. "C'mon. C'mon, now."

Clearing head height now, the lift crawled upwards, still without a sign of Lusia.

"Throne, they pick their moments, don't they?" Azar stared at the party of service troops that had now wheeled their own supply of ammunition down the aisle and were shunting the cart onto the track that led to the other lift. The timing could not have been worse as Lusia appeared next to them, inadvertent on her behalf. Keeping her hands tucked inside her sleeves and her head down, Lusia moved quickly in the direction of the ascending lift. All seemed well until one of the Cadians happened to look too closely at the control room, and the bullet-marked window.

"Run, Lusia, run. You're burnt. Bloody run." I trembled. "Lorne, oi. Give them Cadians a five-round burst over their 'eads if they open fire."

"Gotcha, mate." Lorne was all too ready to give the Cadians a serving of lead. Folding his bipod, Lorne rested the Molota's barrel upon Borens's shoulder and pressed the safety lever down.

Gunnel looked at me. "I thought you weren't—"

"Over their heads, mate. We've got the firepower here. They won't engage unless they're that thick."

Picking up her pace, Lusia ignored the question a service trooper asked her. Pointing out the scarring on the window to his comrades, the trooper picked up an M-36 from the cart and pulled the sling over his head, barking at Lusia to stop.

"Alright, Lorne—"

I never finished. Lusia, half-turning, drew her plasma pistol and fired behind her, the electric blue projectile searing over the Cadian's heads, the closeness to the heat singing covers and bare skin.

"Lorne, cover!" I shouted, unhooking a smoke grenade from my webbing and throwing the primed bomb off the lift. The ear-splitting bellow of the Molota, firing from such an elevation, suppressed the Cadians immediately, denying them the opportunity to return fire with any accuracy.

"Five-round bursts!" I snarled. "Where's Lusia?"

"I have her!" Izuru, leaning over the railing, was struggling with something.

Rushing to her aid, I saw Lusia had thrown away her axe and backpack, leaving her light enough for one of her many tools – a support cable with a claw on the end – to latch on to the rising lift, and winch her upwards. "Cyrano, anyone, give us a hand here."

"Throne, she's heavy," Cyrano groaned, bracing a boot against the rail as he, Izuru, and I strained to drag Lusia aboard.

"Ah, there you go," I gasped, my ears ringing. "How 'bout that?"

Flopping down, Lusia's winch cable retracted. Another coiled arm made a play at Cyrano's beard, tugging it sharply.

"Ow. Yes, it's a real beard." Cyrano clawed at Lusia's arm.

"Oi, give over." I punched Lusia in the shoulder. "Lorne, cease fire."

"Aah, scared 'em off, James," Lorne crowed, lifting his smoking stubber off Borens's shoulder. The other Highlander had been completely deafened and had his hands over his numbed ears.

"Got her to thank for that, you 'ave." I pointed at Izuru.

"Many thanks." Lusia rested a hand on her breast and bowed her head.

I could not gauge Izuru's reaction. The lift had entered the tunnel, leaving us all in darkness. From far away, a klaxon began to blare.

* * *

 **Valkyrie 229, Lake Scutula, 15:33**

 _Ionia's_ stranded bulk receding in his rear-view, Hugh Waldo ran his tongue over moisture-starved lips, trying unsuccessfully to swallow on a dry throat. The incessant questions bombarding the intercom played havoc in his ears.

"Hugh, do you hear me?"

"Hugh, are you alright up there?"

"Hugh, what's our ETA to Kraf?"

Still, the bomber came. With a 25-metre wingspan, a length of 19 metres, four ramjets, and armour-plating, the beast – a Marauder 'Destroyer' – roared ever closer. Bristling with heavy-calibre batteries, forward and rear-facing, the bomber was a fearsome quarry even without the payload it bore in its belly. Though Waldo had no illusions whether or not the bomb bay was full.

 _Ori or the thousands down there?_

Hearing his own loud breathing over the intercom, Waldo sucked in the oxygen his mask provided, inhaling and exhaling through his mouth, twitching at the chatter in his ears. Arun asking if he was okay. Irv on about the ETA to Kraf. Russ repeating that Ori was coughing up blood. Reaching for the comm, Waldo's finger hovered over the switch, agonising over the decision. _No question,_ he thought, switching off the intercom. _Sorry, Ori._

Glancing up at _Ionia_ , the lake, and the bomber, Waldo shut his eyes, commended his soul to the Emperor, then tilted his yoke, giving a boot of his rudder for good measure. The purr of the Slick's twin turbojets grew to a howl as the horizon tipped. For a moment the sun broke through the clouds, the light glinting off 229's wingtips and cutting out Waldo's vision. As his eyes adjusted, Waldo levelled out, once more on a northerly heading. Touching the lever down by his left leg, Waldo pushed it forwards, granting more power to the Slick's engines.

Passing over the ditched ship, Waldo vaguely registered survivors clambering out of the open airlocks and jumping down into the water far below. Perhaps it was the speed he was now travelling at, or was it his eyes playing tricks on him? In the slowly-spreading cloud of starship fuel, leaking out of _Ionia's_ hull, was she very gently listing over to starboard?

* * *

 **IMT _Ionia_ , Deck 4 Amidships, 15:32**

The division between guardsman and grunt became negligible in the tight confines of the corridor on deck four. Trapped underneath the harsh glare of the red emergency lighting, and pressed in between Cadians and naval personnel, Aimo, Ral, Joe, Tom, and Peter kept ahold of one another so as not to be separated in the confused masses of guardsmen and sailors crowding the passageway; so many shouting questions nobody knew the answers to.

" _Now hear this. Now hear this. All personnel aboard, please make your way to the nearest airlock._ "

"What happened – are we down?" Squeezed against the bulkhead, Tom rubbed at his aching backside, squinting at the glare.

"What, you thought that noise was us leaving the atmosphere?" Joe said, his shoulder pressed against Tom's. "Use your loaf, pal. You alright there, Peter?" He ruffled Peter's hair, hoping the lad would finally come out and say something after his silence.

"Aah, he's gone. Leave him." Ral sneered. A lump was rising on the back of his head, where he had bashed it on the bulkhead during the crash. Nobody wore hard cover now. It was berets or bare heads.

"Oi, cut him some slack, Ral." Aimo poked Ral in the side. "Poor lad lost his dad, for God's sake."

To Joe's amazement, Ral elbowed Aimo back with a good amount of force behind it. "Come on, Ral, simmer down." Joe moved to pin Ral's arm to his side.

"Oomph, steady on, Ral. We're all rolled up in a barrel here, lad." Aimo, unable to see the nervous fright on Ral's face, tried to reassure him. "We're okay. We're okay."

" _Every man for himself!_ " The cry floated down from a nearby companionway.

"Shit, we're up the spout now, boys." Tom muttered.

"Down the drain, more likely." Joe squeezed Peter's shoulder comfortingly.

"If you've got a friend, keep him next to you. Anybody on their own, look at the man beside you. Remember his face and his name." A member of the ship's crew, an officer, made his way through the crowd, past Joe and the others. Despite the panicked cry of 'every man for himself' given, the officer was calm and sounded authoritative. "You don't need to ask his life story. Just look at the fellow next to you and follow him when he leaves. I want this deck cleared as quickly as possible. As long as you are here. Others below you cannot leave."

"He sounds like he knows what he's doing," Aimo said hopefully.

"Yeah, him and no-one else," Joe tutted, shaking his head at the plethora of questions the officer was confronted with. Amazingly, the officer kept his cool, even replying with a joke.

"I advise against anybody getting too cosy with his friend. This is an imperial charter vessel and rules will be observed. I charge ten credits an hour for rent. Twenty including refreshments."

"Hmph. Formidable fella." Aimo laughed.

The air of light-heartedness the officer had brought along was promptly forgotten when, bizarrely, the deck lurched.

"Did we land in the drink or something?" Tom clung to the bulkhead, doing his best to keep his backside from touching anything.

"Search me." Aimo shrugged. "I've lost focus on events – ow! Give it a rest, Ral."

"Why is this funny? We've had nothing but fortune shitting on us, ever since Nemtess," Ral spat.

The vile mood that had Ral in its clutches rubbed Joe the wrong way. The calm, professional medic Joe had known before at Rakka had turned into someone quite unpleasant now, calling into question what had affected him so badly. Determined to protect those he now thought of as mates, Joe felt compelled to come to the defence of Peter, Tom, and Aimo if Ral continued to act in such an abusive manner. _What's got in to you, Ral?_ Joe wondered, guiding Tom along as the queue began to move. Though as silent as ever, Peter made an effort with Aimo, conscientiously taking Aimo's arm and leading him, leaving the embittered Ral to walk behind.

Without even being ordered to head up the companionway, Joe and the others followed the crowd and soon found themselves at a starboard-facing airlock. The answer as to why the ship was listing became starkly clear when Joe saw the daylight: _Ionia_ had made a belly-landing in the ocean.

"Bugger me, we are in the drink," Tom said glumly. "Can you, swim, lads?"

Grouped around the open airlock were crewmen handing out packages of deflated rubber held inside plastic packets. Both an officer and a commissar were overseeing the handling. The latter letting the former issue instructions.

"Those who cannot swim take a life preserver. Those who can must go without. There aren't enough for everybody aboard. Be careful when you exit the airlock. On your immediate left and right there are steps built into the hull. Proceed up those steps until you reach the upper hull then await further instructions."

"Alright, Tom, can you swim?" Joe waved a hand for one of the crew to toss them a life preserver.

"Bit o' breaststroke, nothing fancy."

"Aimo?"

"Yeah."

"Ral?"

"Yeah."

Accosting the sailors, Joe explained he was a non-combatant and showed them Aimo and Peter.

"Two." A sailor passed Joe two life preservers. "Two only. Keep moving."

"Peter, one for you. Aimo, you take the other."

Accepting his without comment, Peter tore the seal away with his teeth and worked the rubber over his head. Aimo wordlessly passed his back to Joe. "You're not a combatant, Joe."

" _Pah_. No such thing. You know I did that just so they'd cough up, Aimo." Joe ripped the seal and fitted the deflated rubber over Aimo's head. "Don't be daft. Wear it. We're gonna be doing some climbing now. I'll show you what to do."

* * *

The bucking and shuddering had come from the missiles tearing great chunks from _Ionia's_ outer hull and puncturing the spall lining which also acted as coolant during the period where the hull was baked in intense heat from the atmosphere. With water spreading underfoot, Gartlan Mallis trod over to the bulkhead door that led to the companionway down to one of the ship's holds.

"How many down number-two hold?" Captain Averell had asked before Mallis had left the bridge.

"About eight-hundred navy, sir. Why?"

"I think a missile caved in the hull there and blew away their exit."

Confirming Averell's assumption, Mallis spun the wheel and pushed open the heavy door to see a giant spout of water flooding the hold where the naval personnel were trapped. The only ladder that led down to the hold had been twisted and mangled by the blast, leaving it unusable, and the men down there with no exit. Ordering ropes and even a fire hose to be thrown down to the men, Mallis watched, sickened, as the struggling mass of men tried to reach the lifelines. Then _Ionia_ lurched further over.

 _Number three hold is stacked with fuel,_ Mallis remembered. He had overseen the transfer of the promethium barrels earlier in the day. Now, when he reached the hold, he saw tonnes of it leaking out. _If that lot catches fire…_

Increasingly concerned that the ship was quite literally sinking, as if she were an old sailing boat of the wet navy of years' passed, Mallis rushed to No.4 hold to see a furious white core of water spurting upwards from a deep gash that ran lengthwise along the floor of the hold. _That wasn't a missile impact!_ Mallis realised. The damage to the ship's belly had been dealt to her when she had grazed the hillside just before impact. _Throne of Terra, I think Ionia's had it._

Averell needed no damage report from his first officer. He had already decided _Ionia_ was lost. " _Now hear this. Now hear this. All personnel aboard, please make your way to the nearest airlock._ "

Pummelling a bulkhead with the palm of his hand, Mallis cursed bitterly, his blame not on his captain, but on the Marines, who had not come to their aid when they were needed most.

Dropping the defeatist attitude, once he was back amongst the waiting crowds, Mallis nodded pleasantly, otherwise acting as an officer should in a time of crisis. _It could be worse_ , he thought to himself. _We might be being bombed_.

* * *

 **Solarus District, 16:00**

Forgoing any semblance of a combat formation now, Simon Corta sat huddled with his seven grunts in a wide ditch, listening to the guttural barks of Nathaniel and the popping of bolter-fire. Lying with their backs against the slope, the dirty, sweaty faces, half-hidden underneath helmet rims, panted like hounds, beads of saliva stretched between teeth.

Rolling onto his front, Corta crawled up to the top of the ditch and peered over. As his eyes drew level with the road surface, a loud crack of a hard object against ceramite brought him slithering back down.

"Col!" Rhidian blurted, pushing himself away from the slope, and aiming at where he thought the shot had come from. Colvin lay motionless, his head tilted up. A trail of blood was running down his forehead, splitting into two when it reached the bridge of his nose.

"Move! Move!" Corta exhorted the Cannons, throwing himself against the opposite slope, scanning the windows of the derelict habs. A second shot, the zinging bark heard at the same time as the report was, buried itself in another man's side, bringing him down flat on his face.

"Fifth storey window on the left." Rhidian's declaration was muffled as he and Corta put fire on the bare window-frame.

"Are you sure?" Corta shouted back. "You get any muzzle flash?"

"Yeah, I—"

Peeling away from his skull, Rhidian's lower jaw was shot off, torn away in a cloud of blood, bone, skin, and teeth.

"NO!" Corta dropped his M-36 and barrelled over to the limp Rhidian. Bolter-fire had stitched brutal trails through the ditch and caught Rhidian. The piercing buzz of motorbikes droned in Corta's direction. Turning tail, Corta caught a glimpse of bikes and sidecars blitzing his way, the vehicle's twin-linked bolter batteries beating out tunes of death.

"Left – go left!" Catching up to the others, Corta hauled a grunt by the back of his body armour out of the ditch, realising it was now a killing zone for the bikes' batteries. "Arrigo, get your arse outta there!"

Struggling, through a combination of exhaustion and the weight of their body armour, rifles, and covers, the five grunts scrambled out of the ditch and back into the ruined buildings, the hoots and cheers of the bike-riding Nathaniel close by.

"Where's Rhidian? Sir, where's Colvin?"

"Rhidian and Colvin are wasted, Kinas. So is Garrett," Corta snapped, counting off the men still with him. Besides Wharton and Arrigo, there were only Kinas and Ledren left. All four, having survived since Rakka, looked near to breaking point. There was only so much a normal man could take. Corta too felt like he was balancing upon the knife-edge whilst looking over a yawning precipice down into darkness. "Okay, stop, stop, stop. Just hold on for a sec."

Lasguns were left on the floor, and helmets were pulled off, their owners at the end of their tethers and fast losing the will to fight on. Rubbing the back of his neck, Corta felt a wetness where something had cut his skin. _Shrapnel?_ He looked at his bloody hand. _Had to be hit some time, I guess_.

"Oi, look." Ledren pointed out of a hole in the wall. "Is that the bastion?"

"Dunno, mate. You tell me." Wharton, on his knees in the centre of the room they had taken refuge in, said tiredly.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is." Arrigo worked his forefinger and thumb over his tear ducts. "Aah, bloody dust. Mister Corta, come look."

"You'd better not be pulling my leg, Arrigo," Corta said, rolling his aching neck. "Where?"

"Just saw a ship lift off—"

Arrigo's voice was lost in the scream of aero engines. All five men ducked when Marine gunships streaked overhead. Painted in a clear yellow, the pair of Thunderhawks each had empty bomb racks and looked like they had been in heavy contact.

"Not all alone out here, I guess," Corta said. The belated appearance of friendly air support did nothing to change his view on the Marines. They were still entirely alien to him, and, honestly, had more in common with Nathaniel than they did any friendly formations. More to Corta's interest was the cigar-shaped transport that lifted up from behind the bastion's walls, and hastened for the sky; its progress inviting Zeke to light the sky up with small-arms' fire and the occasional rocket-propelled grenade.

A good 250 yards distant, the walls loomed temptingly, offering sanctuary to the dog-tired grunts. _Okay, we can make it_. Corta checked his chrono, having to wipe muck off the face before he could read the digits. _16:07_. _Still time_.

Believing the Marine riders had abandoned their pursuit, Corta decided that making a beeline towards the bastion would be the best move, even if it meant crossing a short stretch of open ground – near-sixty yards – before reaching the cover of the next block of habs; and beyond that, the bastion.

Poking his head out of the opening, Corta glanced both ways, waving at the grunts to follow him across the street. " _Let's go_ ," he whispered. Throwing a leg over the sharp stone, Corta wriggled around far enough to drop down to the road, landing on the balls of his feet then racing across. Grey silhouettes on a rooftop to his two o'clock caught his eye. An oath escaping his parched lips, Corta fell into a shell hole, his feet cutting channels in the dirt. To his dismay, Cadian dead were heaped all around. Fresh corpses too. Despite being partially-entombed in the ruins, they were still recognisable as human.

" _Wait. Wait!_ " Corta mouthed, showing a flat palm to Wharton, who was just about to follow.

 _Why?_ Wharton raised his free hand, confused at Corta's orders.

" _Two o' clock. Rooftop_."

Jerking his head, Wharton's mouth moved as he explained to Arrigo and the others that the enemy had eyes on the street.

" _One at a time_." Corta beckoned, repeating himself so the grunts did not make the same mistake as they had before.

" _Can you cover us from there?_ " Wharton whispered loudly.

Leaning as far out of the crater as he could, Corta swore at the error he had made. Zeke was occupying a rooftop further down the street but on the same side as he was, hence he was out of Corta's line of sight. Improvising, one of the grunts instead aimed his M-36 out of the opening, offering to cover the others as they crossed.

"Thanks, Led." Wharton slipped off the ledge and pushed away from the wall, his boots smacking against the road surface.

" _Come on_." Corta grunted, feeling useless where he was, and unable to do anything about it.

"Contact. Rooftop!" Ledren cried.

"Wharton, move."

Quicker on the draw than Corta had thought they would be, Zeke responded aggressively, pouring automatic weapons' fire down at Wharton's lone figure. A sharp slap of metal-on-metal momentarily befuddled Corta. Seemingly hit, Wharton fell down, screaming, "get it off me!"

 _His smoke grenades!_ Still bearing the coloured smoke markers on his person, a Zeke round had hit one of them. Expelling from the puncture with a loud _whoosh_ , the violet smoke engulfed the spluttering Wharton.

"Fucking burns," he screeched, unfastening his belt kit and throwing it away, leaving his M-36 behind as he made it to Corta.

"Are you alright?"

"Tastes like paint-thinner, sir," Wharton coughed, clawing at his throat.

"Wish we'd thought of that before." Corta waved to Kinas. "Now's as good a time as any."

Kinas made it over unscathed. As did Arrigo.

"Got a job for you, Wharton." Corta removed the metallic gorget from where it hung around his neck and passed it to the signaller. "When you get to the bastion, pass this on to any officer you find."

Looking down at the dirty metal curiously, Wharton frowned at Corta. "What about you, sir?"

"Just… just take it. Ledren. Iggery!"

Rifle-fire skipping all around him, Ledren, his lips drawn back from clenched teeth, dashed towards the waving grunts. A split-second _whoosh_ then the wall behind him explode outwards, filling the street with smoke and dust; completely covering the open ground.

"Led? Talk to me, mate." Kinas squirmed, blinded temporarily by the dust.

"Ledren, we're over here!" Corta called, fitting the pair of dust goggles attached to his cover over his eyes. "Stay down, the lot of you."

Bellying forwards, Corta found an arm, tugged it then, feeling no response, crawled back. "Led's gone. Pull out!"

Hearing Kinas swear for all he was worth, Corta forgot Ledren, urging the others to flee to the bastion whilst they still had their lives. "Arrigo, move your bloody arse!"

His teary eyes looking to the skies, Arrigo wailed, "it's back!"

"What?"

Harking back to Arrigo's previous sighting, Corta now saw what it was that had Arrigo bricking it so badly. Spread against the backdrop of the thunderclouds were wings of the darkest night, attached to a body so corrupted by Chaos, it was no longer recognisable as the Nathaniel it once was. Gaping up at the horror, Corta pushed at Arrigo, desperate to get away from whatever the thing in the sky was. The sight of the gold-clad woman, her own blood-stained wings beating furiously as she pursued the horror, halted Corta.

"Mister Corta!" Arrigo bleated.

The sword of light the woman was wielding beat ferociously against the horror's own blade, locking with the talon-like claws the horror had attached to his other hand. Expecting them to continue their mid-air tussle, Corta shrunk away in alarm when the pair grappled and plummeted to the earth, knocking huge chunks out of the buildings they careered through.

"Sir, let's get out of here. Let's go!" Arrigo pulled the transfixed Corta along after Wharton and Kinas, who had made it into cover and had withdrawn from view.

The horror recovered first, grabbing the woman by the wings, lifting her up and punching her full in the face with the pommel of his sword, snapping her head back. Corta saw blood shining on the pommel, enough of it for him to shake free of Arrigo's hand and scoop up one of the dead Cadian's M-36s.

"Sir, what you doing? You can't help her." Arrigo protested.

"Arrigo, go – get the bastion. I'll be along shortly." As Corta spoke, he felt the lie, given so confidently, drop a stone into his stomach.

With Arrigo fleeing after Wharton and Kinas, Corta vied for the horror's attention, switching his M-36 to 'automatic', and laying burst of las-fire into its armour. Paying no notice, the horror slammed the woman on to her back and brought a boot down upon her midriff. The pained cry burned Corta's insides, enflaming his anger at the horror.

"YOU!" Corta placed his shots on the base of the horror's neck, a weak-point, tearing its attention away from the woman. Grinding its boot against the woman's torso, the horror's livid eyes – two slits of flame set into a hideously mutated helmet – fixed on Corta. Losing his appetite to fight in that instant he locked eyes with the horror, Corta dropped his Kantrael and clapped his hands over his ears. His distraction allowed the woman a moment's respite. Slicing the horror's knee-plate with her sword, she kicked both legs, righting herself, once more locking her blade with the horror's own, screams of incandescent fury flying from her bloody lips.

The pants-wetting terror having deserted him, now that the horror no longer had him under its glare, Corta cast aside the useless M-36 and sought heavier firepower. Just why Zeke was giving the two giants a wide berth became clear as the amount of destruction the two were causing made it downright dangerous to be in the immediate vicinity. While Corta searched, the horror kicked the woman through two whole walls, bringing them down upon her. Launching himself in after her, the horror took to the air, spread his wings then rammed the spot where Corta thought she had come to rest at. Relief, however fleeting the feeling was, coursed through him when it appeared she had rolled out of the way.

"Come on. Come on!" he snarled, shoving a dead Cadian off an anti-tank weapon. Mistaking it for a handheld thermobaric weapon, Corta realised it was a plasma gun, by the ribbed cooling vents along the top of the body. Savage elation gripping him, Corta's heart sunk when he noticed the hole where the hydrogen cell was loaded. It was empty.

Cursing Nathaniel, Zeke, the Guard, and the Emperor in general, Corta rolled into another crater where, at last, he happened upon a Cadian grenade launcher. Quite unlike the single-shot Castra, this one was a revolver-type with swing-out chamber, a collapsible stock, and an angled foregrip. To Corta's satisfaction, all six chambers were full, plus the dead operator was wearing a full bandolier of 40-millimetre cartridges.

"Come on then," he muttered, looping the bandolier over his shoulder. Occupied with beating the tar out of each other, the two combatants were ignoring Corta. _Get out of the way_ , Corta pleaded, lining up his launcher's optical gunsight on the horror, who was too close to the woman for Corta to strike. And he was afraid the shrapnel or concussion would hit her. When the horror, his blade locked with hers, presented his back, Corta squeezed the trigger. Expecting to hear the cough of the warhead leaving the barrel, Corta, instead, heard nothing but the revolver-mechanism moving to the next chamber. He had tried to fire on an empty casing.

"Shit it," he muttered, re-acquiring the horror's armoured mass. Gaining the upper hand, the woman now forced the horror to exit the entire block they had flattened, pushing it in Corta's direction. Forgoing her sword, the woman charged the horror, landing a double drop kick upon its body, making it stumble backwards. Off-balance and on the back foot, the horror, undeterred, replied with a head-butt, the razor-sharp horns upon its helmet seeking to run the woman through.

 _Whupp._ Corta's launcher spoke. Smacking the horror's back-plate dead-centre, the 40-millimetre round exploded, tearing its attention from the woman and back to Corta. Aghast at the interruption, the woman gathered her breath to shout to Corta. Whatever she intended to convey, it was lost when the horror bowled into her and got her into a headlock.

"Oi, over here!" Corta shouted.

Spinning around, the horror hurled the woman into a pile of debris, a growl of rage, nails-on-a-blackboard to Corta's ears, leaving the teeth-filled maw where its respirator-vox grill was. Picking out Corta again, the horror pounded towards him. This time Corta did not drop his weapon in fear but stood up, hitting the horror with a second grenade and third grenade. It did absolutely nothing to slow its headlong charge. Even when it got to within the minimum range for the launcher's rounds to arm, Corta stood and fired his last shot, the hammer blow striking the horror square in the face. Laughing, the horror scooped up Corta in its massive paw, squeezing his body cruelly, the slits of flame pouring out of the eyepieces like molten liquid.

Face-to-face with the horror, Corta let the empty launcher fall. Glancing down at the full bandolier of high-explosive rounds across his chest, Corta pulled a pair of fragmentation grenades from his webbing and, meeting the horror's eyes, got his thumb through both rings and pulled. The spoons flew off, and the fuses began to burn. Eyes wet from fear, Corta closed his eyes and sobbed.

* * *

Struggling to dig herself out of the rubble that had half-buried her, the angel saw the bright billow of flame engulf the Daemon Prince. Stunned that a single Imperial Guardsman had sacrificed himself for her, the angel re-lit her sword and howled, spittle and blood dribbling from her chin as she threw herself, blade-first, at the monstrosity. Tears of rage and sorrow, flowing due to the pummelling she had taken, and the dogged persistence of the lone guardsman, fell in streams as the angel assaulted the dazed Daemon Prince, cleaving off the beast's arm with her sword then delivering the banishing blow, thrusting her sword deep into the small of the Daemon Prince's back, burying it all the way up to the hilt.

Ripping the bloodied sword free, the angel kicked at the Daemon Prince's body, letting loose with a throaty cry, out of equal parts' grief and anger. So worked up at the near-death experience she'd had, the angel paid no attention to her Geminae Superia, when the two swooped low over the broken rooftops, weaving through the light and heavy automatic weapons' fire, and setting down gracefully around her.

"My lady. Are you hurt?" one of the sisters asked,

Breathing through her clenched teeth, the angel found the body. Blackened, bloody, and thoroughly unrecognisable. "Why?" she wondered aloud, wiping at the blood and grime staining her skin. _Who are you?_ _Another saint, come to lend aid in the Imperium's time of need?_ There was no question, he could not have been a mortal man. Any mere mortal would have fled in terror, their spirits too frail to stand up to the terror of the Black Legion.

"Why did you help me?" The angel stooped, taking the body by the shoulder, searching for the identification disks every soldier wore around his neck. Eviscerated in the blast, the soldier's disks were lost forever. Despairing, the angel's face cracked, and she wept.

"My lady."

Gently laying the body down, the angel wiped her eyes. "Bear the Daemon's corpse with you, I beseech. We will cast it from the city walls."

With the Geminae Superia bearing the Daemon's body between them, the angel took to the skies with her sisters, silently grieving at the guardsman's noble sacrifice.

* * *

 **The Citadel, 15:37**

For two and a half hours, Osvat Radu Zeleska had awaited further news of the Eldar to reach him. Lenz, down at the evacuation point in the Korat district, had seen no signs of any attempted egress by the Eldar. Argus, commanding the team that, at present, was reinforcing the Interior Guard, had similarly zero luck with acquiring the elusive Eldar. Still supremely confident that she would fall into his hands before the day was out, Zeleska paced his office, rolling his shoulders and neck, the anticipation at finally facing her in one-on-one combat lending a spring to his step. Opening one of his drawers, Zeleska selected a tiny bottle of Reflex, combat drugs in pill-form designed to grant heightened reactions. Popping a handful into his mouth, Zeleska bit down and swallowed with the last of his amasec. _A fine beverage. My compliments to Lord Castellan Creed._ Zeleska's hand hovered over the bottle of Spur, a stamina-enhancer he used sparingly during sex, pondering if he might take a hit before passing blades with Izuru Numerial. _Prefer to be sharper on the uptake, I think,_ he decided. He had already finished his bottle, excessive use of narcotics would only mull his senses, and he wanted to be sharp.

A trill on his private comm brought Zeleska back to his desk. _The lord inquisitor, no doubt,_ he thought sullenly. Zeleska was far overdue returning to his master. There would be a grilling for his disobedience. _Pah, not like I haven't been punished before,_ Zeleska snorted, idly fiddling with a clasp on his boot. The caller was not whom he had been expecting. It was a member of his order, yet not a member he had ever met in person, or even heard of before.

"Salutations, my fellow inquisitor," a cold, clear, female voice spoke sharply, surprising Zeleska.

"Greetings, my lady. I am not sure I have ever had the pleasure before…"

"My name is Katarinya Greyfax. You are Osvat Radu Zeleska. We serve the same cause."

"We do." Zeleska played along, his brain racing to formulate a suitable response to this unfamiliar voice. "You have me in a difficult position, Lady Greyfax. I am awaiting my master's call to return to his ship. I fear I am not long for Cadia."

A buzz at his door, and Argus Degrelle was standing there. Not much usually passed across his stoic features. Zeleska however read the concern etched on it immediately. Something was decidedly out of place.

"Your pardon, Lady Greyfax. My master calls. We shall speak soon."

"And who is he, Master Zeleska?"

" _My lord. Urgent_ ," Argus mouthed.

Furious at the interruption, Zeleska held up a finger. _Wait!_

"I am acolyte to Lord Inquisitor Torquemada Coteaz. Uh, your pardon, madam. Comms have been spotty lately…"

Cutting the connection, Zeleska waved at Argus. "Speak. Be frank."

Bowing, Argus said, "my lord, we have a security breach on One-Subterranean."

"What? I sent you to reinforce the Interior Guard at the Venessium Gates. Why do you come before me now with these lies?"

"Lord, there was a shooting incident in an ammunition storage facility. Five ILC personnel were murdered. They were unarmed. Another seven ILC personnel were fired upon by unknown assailants that rode an ammunition lift up to the ground floor. They infiltrated the Citadel via the deepest sub-levels, and have managed to circumvent the lockdown on the ground floor."

"You spoke to the ILC men. Did they provide details – who they were?" Zeleska leapt out of his seat and checked his bolt pistol, power sword, and Rosarius.

"A lone techpriestess and four other ILC men. An AdMech turncoat in the company of Cadian traitors, my lord."

"Did they see anyone else?"

"No, my lord. But they were fired on by others that stole on to the lift."

 _So, the Eldar has swayed the AdMech and a handful of Cadians to her cause_. _That Archmagos had a hand in this,_ Zeleska thought. He positively relished the thought of finally obtaining ammunition to use against the AdMech. Now that they had turned traitor, every single one of the mechanical monstrosities could be terminated by his men and the Interior Guard.

"Very well. I shall deal with this myself." Zeleska picked up his cloak from where it was draped across his chair. "Argus, take your team down to the hangar in Tleilax. Lock it down."

"Lenz, my lord?" Argus followed Zeleska out into the corridor as the latter fastened the chain around his neck. "Recall him from the airbase?"

"Lenz stays," Zeleska said, setting the safety on his bolt pistol and loosening the sword at his hip.

"My lord…" Argus pressed a finger to the comm bead in his ear. "They've reached the control room above the Venessium Gates."

"How many?" Zeleska began to run.

"Unsure, my lord. They said they were under attack. The link was cut shortly after."

"Argus. Hangar. Lock it down – make sure both Arrakis and Tleilax are locked down. Nothing gets in or out. Do you understand?"

"My lord!"

"Comm bead." Zeleska took the spare comm bead from Argus and placed it in his ear. "Two men, with me."

Breaking away from the scions, two of his personal guard in tow, Zeleska listened to the sporadic chatter criss-crossing Interior Guard comms.

" _Contact. Contact. Hostiles are inside the perimeter. I say again, hostiles are inside the perimeter. Unknown number Traitor Guard. Be aware, there may be Cadian turncoats with them."_

Picking up his pace, Zeleska replied, "this is Inquisitor Zeleska. Direct me to the traitors. I am on floor four heading north from the state rooms."

" _Yes, my lord. Traitors have left Venessium Gate control centre and are heading north to Arrakis Tower. Be aware, they have split their number. The second group's destination is unknown at this time."_

" _Understood."_

Then a new speaker came on. He did not sound as calm as the other did. _"All Interior Guard callsigns, Venessium Gate is compromised. I say again, Venessium Gate is compromised. All available fireteams converge on that location. The hated foe makes his entry."_

 _Sabotage!_ Zeleska swore inwardly. The Eldar and her pet techpriestess must have removed the lockdown from the gates. Now untold hordes of Chaos infantry and Marines would be rushing to exploit the point of ingress. Striding to the end of the corridor where turbolifts were, Zeleska stepped in, clasping his hands in front of him and looking up at the glowing numerals built into the ceiling. Allowing himself a smile, he said to himself, _clever girl_. Glory to the Emperor, he had been looking forwards to this for a long time.


	47. Chapter 46

**The Citadel, 15:21**

Expecting Lusia to whisk us through the sealed door that greeted us when the ammunition lift came to a halt in the darkened shaft, I gestured impatiently when she did not move.

"Ah-ah." Lusia stepped over to a tiny socket, near invisible amongst the nest of piping in the shaft, and slotted one of her appendages inside. "Now, we climb."

From recesses in the wall, thin rungs extended, forming a ladder that climbed higher than the ammunition lift could travel.

"Aw, you're joking…" Azar muttered, adding a few choice words directed towards the AdMech.

"Our enginseers and architects left their mark in many places," Lusia said, offering for me to lead off. "Please."

"Nothing doing. If we get to a locked door, and you're underneath me, we're shagged."

"Hah!" Lorne guffawed. "Don't even look safe either."

"Been inside a factory before?" Azar asked, not expecting anybody to reply. "I did a meat detail in one. Fingers and thumbs, they said. That's what you're gonna be leavin' behind once you're done here." Azar showed me all ten of his. "Never got a scratch."

"What d'you want, a fucking Wounded Lion, mate?" I said irritably. "Can give you one o' mine…"

"James!" Cyrano interrupted, cutting short all talk of Wounded Lions. "Can we proceed?"

"Yeah, yeah." Folding the Red Rifle's stock, I moved the weapon around my back to rest against the Grapo, grinning at Azar. "Ladies first."

"Go on then." Azar nodded at the ladder. "Ladies first. Scumbags just before."

"Aw, you're a real jobby, you are, Azar," Lorne said. "You puggled there?"

"Got a boab problem, I bet," Borens sniggered.

Ignoring the Highlander's barbed remarks, I waited as Lusia climbed above my head height then followed after her. Preparing to come up behind me, Izuru collapsed the Roga's stock and sat it against her back. Those with adjustable stocks tucked them in and slung rifles, lasguns, and automatics, seating them in as comfortable a position as they could for the climb. Weighed down by three weapons, belt kit, and ammunition, I felt the drag downwards as I placed rung after rung underneath the worn soles of my boots. Unsure of the smooth surface, I misplaced a foot once, leading me to slip down a rung, the sensation of dropping woke me up, hard. A hand, catching me in the backside, prevented any incident.

"Pause. Take a breath and regain your footing," Izuru said patiently. "Take the extra second and do it right."

Receiving a push upwards from Izuru, I found the rungs once more, and resumed the climb. Taps of bootheels upon steel, the rustle and jangle of equipment, and the heavy breathing of ten men brought life to the cold shaft, where previously none had existed. Soon, I had set a rhythm, and was settling in to it when a surprised, 'oh!' was given by somebody further down.

A loud clatter of metal-upon-metal brought everyone to a halt. A barb of fear shaking my heart, I gripped the narrow rungs through my flight gloves tightly. "What the fuck was that?"

"Something rolled off Gunnel. Hit me on the head as it fell. It's Mrenk."

"Who?"

"Gunnel."

"Lost a – lost a grenade, Sergeant," Gunnel said, a hint of apology in his quiet voice.

"That clatter…"

"Frag's down at the bottom with the ammo lift. Sorry, Sergeant."

Heady quantities of off-world profanities were hissed by Azar and the Highlanders. I felt like lashing out verbally against the Cadians too, but withheld my jab. "Did you wrap tape around the spoon?"

"Tape? No, Sergeant."

A live grenade was now sitting amongst the ammunition crates directly beneath us. The sooner we were out of the shaft now, the better.

"No worries. Let's keep going. Lusia…"

Lusia needed no encouragement to press onwards. Nor, apparently, had she even stopped when the grenade had landed, and was now way above us, going by the torch beam she was guiding herself by.

"Alright, let's iggery this bit, boys. Bit o' speed now, I reckon."

"No. Pace yourself," Izuru said. "You do not know when you will be called upon to fight. Be aware that we may no longer be able to pick fights on our terms."

"Okay, I hear you."

Further discussion ceased, everybody setting their objective as getting to where the man in front of him was. Nothing else remarkable happened during the climb. Only when we reached the very top of the shaft, did another obstacle present itself.

"No. There's no way." I froze. "Number ten."

Very close to the ceiling now, I looked up at the mess of pipes that Lusia's light had settled on. It was a dead end. The rungs simply stopped.

"James, look behind you," Izuru said.

Across the abyss, Lusia was crouched in the mouth of a wide pipe, wide enough for an average-sized man to squat or sit comfortably in. Waving at me, Lusia dimmed her torch when the beam shone in my eyes, and spread her arms; awaiting the leap I would need to make.

"Couldn't they 'ave built this on the other side o' the bloody shaft," I growled, unslinging the Red Rifle. "Lusia, take this."

Helpfully, Lusia's snaking arms, unravelling from within pods built into the small of her back behind her narrow waist, extended the full ten feet between me and the mouth of the pipe, seizing my rifle and carrying it across safely. We repeated the same procedure with my Grapo, leaving me with a considerably lighter load.

"Okay…" I squeezed the rungs, psyching myself up for the perilous leap across the abyss.

"I will not let you fall. I promise," Izuru whispered.

"Catch me with one hand, will you?" I retorted, unimpressed.

"If that is what it takes."

Swearing, not at Izuru, but at the situation in general, I flung myself backwards, expecting to plummet into thin air, only for the boundless strength in Lusia's arms to catch me and take my entire weight, gently setting me down inside the pipe beside her.

Feeling my yammering heartbeat, I slouched against the curve of the pipe. "Ain't half got some muscles in them things, you have."

"Praise the Omnissiah." Lusia smiled. "She gives me strength."

"It's a she?"

"To me…"

Izuru made the jump next, needing no assistance from Lusia. In fact, Izuru had not even bothered to throw her Roga or her sword over beforehand.

"Alright?" I asked.

Passing an affectionate hand across my shoulder, Izuru picked up my Grapo from where Lusia had leant it, and handed it to me. Coming up quickly, the party made the leap, either by themselves, or with Lusia's aid. Even the analyst, still gagged, made a good effort, but only after Azar, who was beneath him, started issuing threats. "Come on, you fucking abortion. I'm gonna give you a new hole up your arse if you don't hurry up!"

"Rude," Gunnel muttered.

Giving the most discreet of sighs, Izuru drew me away from the gathering of grunts. "Let us scout the way."

Ahead, the pipe made a U-turn, bringing us back on ourselves, but parallel to where the shaft was. This continued, with the pipe forming S-shapes but always on the same level; never climbing or dropping down. It was a relief that there was only ever one route forwards, with no diverging branches.

"If I may…?" Izuru's voice, though as soft as it had been during the night we had spent together, came across loud and echoing in my ears. "The amoral one, Azar…"

"Aw, don't pay any attention. He's full o' shit," I replied. "A real div."

"What is an abortion?"

My stomach flipped over itself, when I heard the unfamiliar word. "Some… thing girls get, so they don't plop out little grunts." I guessed. "Illegal here on Cadia. Planet's the biggest bloody exporters of grunts in the Imperium. Gotta keep up the production."

"They industrialised reproduction…" Izuru said, quietly appalled.

"Yeah. More efficient that way. Y'know, I think used to think the Imperium put a greater value on lives. Couldn't have been more wrong."

"Then what is sacred, if not bringing a new life in to being?"

"The Emperor, first and foremost. You've got your gods as well, 'aven't you?"

"Family comes before worship."

"Yeah, that makes sense. You can't love a god like you can love your own children."

"Your kind follows that path. All too blindly, I might add. You are right though, James. There is no knowing a deity, no becoming familiar with it, establishing a relationship with it."

"Hm, no."

"They are my gods to me, James. Two stars shining brightly in my sky. I see them always, when I look up at the night."

"Clear sky at night?"

"Always. No Eye of Terror staining the cosmos. No humans, no xenos, no prejudice."

"Sounds like bliss."

"Share it with me."

Oddly moved by Izuru's up-front honesty, I blinked rapidly, busying myself with fixing my rifle's stock into position. When, finally, I had gathered my composure, I looked at Izuru in the dark, finding the tiny pinpricks of her eyes. "When we're done 'ere, we'll talk about the important stuff. Promise."

"Promise?"

I winked. "Number one."

The twisting and turning pipeline ended in a thin mesh screen, letting in the light from the outside. Pressing my nose up close to the cool metal, I took in a cavernous chamber, which looked to be just inside one of the Citadel's main gates. Broader than it was deep, the chamber was cut into two halves by a double-lane road that was sunken beneath the two sides. Likely one of the main routes into and out of the Citadel's facilities, the causeway was guarded by three sealed bridges with firing ports set into both sides. Each overlook was higher than its predecessor, ending in a bunker-like command centre that looked nothing more than a narrow horizontal slit jutting from the wall behind. None the less, I assumed that bunker was where the complex's brains were. And getting inside that would be a win for us.

"Fuck me. Pretty little set-up these Cadians have."

"Rinse that soiled tongue of yours."

Snorting, I rolled my eyes. "Nah, we can waste Cadians alright. But, God forbid if we swear at them…"

"Dispense with the act. I observe enemy down below. You do too."

Closing one eye, I struggled to make out the bold orange stripes upon the Interior Guard platoons that were manning the string of fortified bunkers presiding over the entry point. "Reckon they've been ordered to stand-to."

"And?"

"They've got eyes outboard. I also reckon they 'aven't been told that we've got above the lockdown."

Nodding, Izuru waggled her forefinger at Lusia as she rounded the bend with the others in tow. "You will give us a breach-point here, techpriestess."

"And if I refuse?" Lusia tossed her head. For the briefest moment, I saw what looked like dreadlocks underneath her hood. There were cables extending from the back of her skull, shaped as if Lusia was still human, and with a full head of hair to boot.

"Please." I pressed my palms together. "We owe you big for this."

"A repayment of my choosing," Lusia said, smirking.

"How mercenary," Izuru remarked, leaving her side of the grill to let Lusia in. "Cross your palm with silver, must we?"

I flicked a hand at Izuru, striking her lightly against a hip pouch to shut her up. Petty squabbling would solve nothing. Standing back, the two of us shielded our eyes as Lusia got to work with a cutting torch, drawing a wide circle in the thin steel. In a few minutes, Lusia had worked all the way round, leaving a glowing circle of molten steel. "Ready. Lift it off."

"You lift it off." I didn't want to get anywhere near the metal, not after it had been heated to many hundreds of degrees. It wasn't like Lusia even needed the assistance, what with her super-human strength. Indeed, Lusia demonstrated she was perfectly capable, when she pulled the grate back and leant it gently against the wall.

"Okay. Back from the opening now." I tapped Lusia on the shoulder. "What we dealing with outside?"

In the very uppermost corner of the chamber, high enough to be close to the ceiling, and up in the shadows, was a narrow walkway made of thin mesh; bordered only by waist-high railing. Never the less, it was discreet and looked to be seldom used, by the layer of dust coating the rail and pathway. What was more; it led all the way over the fortifications, right the way to the very end of the defences, where the command centre was.

Drawing back from the opening, careful not to brush the hot edges, I explained how things were going to go. "Okay, can you all hear me?"

"Yep."

"Yeah, James."

"There's a walkway we're taking that leads above the Interior Guard positions. I'm going first. Sniper, after me. Azar, you cover the techpriestess. Cadians, you four next. Cyrano, you're bringing the prisoner. Highlanders. Tail-end. Nice and quiet, now. We've still got surprise. Let's use it."

The mesh flexed very softly underfoot when I let myself down, but otherwise made no noise. Pausing, I watched the distant heads of the Interior Guard fireteams, who were either inside their firing embrasures, or patrolling their perimeter. I was certain they were unaware of our entry, and only interested in the sealed gates directly in front of them.

" _Sniper_ ," I mouthed, gesturing with my off hand for Izuru to follow on directly behind me. With caution, both of us went ahead, the rest of the group following on in short stead. Disturbing the dusty air in our path, I held my hand over my nose and swallowed to stave off the sneeze that was building. That would tear it; a sneeze at the wrong moment.

In minutes, we had reached the end of the walkway, and then turned left to descend a short set of stairs that led down to a security gate. Letting Lusia work the lock, I pushed open the gate with my rifle muzzle and stepped on to the roof of the command centre. There it was just as dusty; loud too. Hums of ventilation and air conditioning masked any noises our feet made. Though the thickness of the command centre's roof and insulation had done that already.

Holding the others back, Izuru and I trod the length and width of the roof, keeping away from the edge overlooking the slit. Izuru found the hatch first, whistling through her teeth for me to come over.

"Lusia?" I guessed the techpriestess's expertise would be required again.

Izuru nodded, saying nothing. As before, Lusia set to work upon the lock. From my point of view, she did it effortlessly, though there was obviously more to it than simply cutting through the mechanism.

"Wait." I stopped Lusia from lifting the hatch. "Me, Sniper, you too, Azar. We'll clear the rooms then signal for you to come down."

There was no sense in us all piling inside. We would just be zipping one another. Better for a small team to assault the rooms, without worry of friendly fire.

"Kasabo. Switch." I passed my Kazalak to Gunnel, who passed it back to Kasabo. I wanted his Tova. The automatic was bigger than a pistol and smaller than a carbine. All black, with a stubby barrel and collapsible stock; it was ideal for room-clearing. Helpfully, Kasabo handed me a spare stick magazine which I put in my trouser pocket. Observing the loaded chamber, I closed the bolt and set the selector to 'automatic'.

"Nah. I'm not going," Azar whispered, shaking his head at me. "Number ten."

"Get yer arse down there, ya little rat," Lorne hissed.

Cyrano said nothing, fixing Azar with a look of quiet ferocity.

All set to belt Azar, I glanced at Izuru who gave the slightest shake of her head. _Leave him_.

 _Fine, we'll do this ourselves_. I nodded at Lusia, who lifted the hatch up, holding it vertical, and allowing me to drop down. Landing inside a dim room – more a cupboard – I winced when my bootheels slapped loudly on the hard floor. But, as with the roof above, the hum of the machinery muffled any out-of-place noises. Crouching, I held the Tova close to my body, and waited as Izuru landed next to me, instantly readying her Roga on contact with the floor. A tiny click, and she popped the clasp holding her Moses inside its holster, loosening it. Pacing over to a door, Izuru signalled me to wait. Lowering her Roga, she removed a grenade from her vest and sliced the tape she had wrapped around it with her knife. It wasn't a frag or concussion model, but a black cylinder with circular holes in the body; a flashbang.

" _Ready?_ " I murmured, my finger hovering over the palm-press that would send the door upwards.

" _When the grenade goes off, proceed to the right. I will cover the left. We work together clearing the rooms one-by-one. We control. We dominate. Understand?"_

Seeing the hardness in Izuru's eyes, and lack of compunction in her blank expression, I nodded, extending the Tova's stock gently then shouldering it. " _Yes_." Giving a nod, I touched the palm-press.

"Flashbang," Izuru muttered, squeezing the spoon and pulling the pin. With no cooking necessary, Izuru tossed the flashbang into the next room then leant away from the door. Three sharp bangs, one after the other, caught me off-guard. Izuru was already pushing in to the room. Swearing, I rushed around the corner, passing my muzzle across Izuru's back before I realised I had done so. There was no left turn for Izuru, just a wall, forcing her to cross my line of fire. Half-squeezing the trigger, I jerked the Tova away before I could zip her in the back. Dismayed, I noticed the flashbang preceding us had been for nothing. The room we had just assaulted was home to desktop cogitators, filing cabinets, and a lot of empty chairs.

Aiming her Roga underneath the desks, and in to any nooks that might have concealed a person, Izuru said, "room clear," and swept over to the door to the next room, quite possibly the command centre. _Throne, we've torn it now,_ I thought. "Any more of them grenades?" I asked aloud.

"Ssh!" Izuru had her ear to the wall. Hearing something on the other side, she drew her knife and took up a fighting stance, motioning me to pull back a few feet. Hearing the hiss of the door opening, I saw a wavering muzzle of a laspistol, quickly becoming a full-sized sidearm, as whoever it was on the other side came to investigate. When the weapon grew from the hand holding it, to the khaki arm it was attached to, Izuru stepped forwards, batting the muzzle upwards. Becoming a blur, Izuru swung a backhanded blow, the handle of her knife aimed at the Cadian's face, and struck him in the nose, producing blood. Without pause, Izuru yanked the Cadian inside, spun him around, and locked him tightly in her hold, with her knife around his neck, and his sidearm now in her hand. As surprised as the Cadian was, I remained rooted when Izuru drove the Cadian pencil-pusher in front of her, using him as a human shield as she stepped out into a short corridor with green walls. Quick double-taps from her laspistol put two more Cadians, who were waiting behind their colleague, on the floor, before I even had the chance to step out after her and aim. The deliberateness rose and slapped me hard in the face when Izuru put two more shots in to the fallen Cadians when she stepped around them. Both left angry tattoos of boiling, bubbling flesh in their foreheads. Those men weren't grunts. They weren't in a teeth outfit. Just some second-line nobodies, now victims of Izuru's.

 _What are we doing?_ I began to wonder, avoiding treading on either of the two, as I hastened after Izuru, who had reached a tight right turn. Touching her on the shoulder to let her know I was at her back, I kept my muzzle lowered as I followed her around the corner. Blocked by her and the hostage, I couldn't see what she was engaging, and instead pivoted right, taking in the rows of consoles set in two tiers, and the startled Cadians behind them. Squeezing the slack from the Tova's trigger, I fired a short burst then another when I saw heads bobbing in and out of view. I had fired maybe eight or nine rounds. Relenting, it appeared that not a man amongst the command centre's staff, whom I could see, wanted to put up a fight. Their colleague, held in Izuru's custody, must have been the decider for that. Keeping the Tova aimed up at the cowed Cadians, my left ear was assaulted by Izuru's laspistol, which she was using to double-tap any that offered resistance. In my peripheral vision I saw an armed Cadian drop to his knees, the unfired laspistol in his hand drooping. Leaving my sector uncovered, I trained the Tova around Izuru's left shoulder, catching sight of the two Cadians Izuru had immediately engaged. Crouched behind a wide display map that showed a detailed layout of the Citadel's grounds, an officer in a peaked cap was pointing his laspistol sideways across the surface. His two companions lay to his left, both with burns in their torsos.

"Don't!" I barked, seeing a hand scrabbling over a console to where a holstered laspistol lay. Ignoring me, the khaki sleeve became a shoulder as the Cadian exposed more of himself. Touching the trigger, I fired, seeing a bright spray of blood burst from the obliterated arm which, near-severed, flopped in a disturbingly unnatural manner, whereupon a woman shrieked, tearing my attention away from the officer, who scooted sideways, out of Izuru's path. Her knife cutting a shallow red line across the hostage's throat, Izuru fired at the officer, scoring two hits that appeared to do nothing. Pushing up behind her, I looked away, not wanting to see Izuru tap the two Cadians, accompanying the officer, in the head. The officer himself, in possession of some sort of personal energy field, had a change of heart, now aware that we were not going to open fire unless fired upon, and threw a volley of shots behind him. Hitting nothing but the consoles in the room. Building up speed, Izuru propelled the hostage forwards, shoving him headlong into the officer, even when the Cadian shot the man out of desperation. Energy fields, as it turned out, only worked against incoming projectiles, kinetic, energy, or otherwise, and offered no such protection against Izuru and the clothesline hip throw she performed. Slammed down upon his back, the officer had all of a second to lie there stunned, before Izuru brought her boot down upon his forehead, the impact audibly cracking his skull.

 _Control. Dominate._ The words held a new meaning to me now. A sour taste was in my mouth when I drove the six stunned Cadians out from where they were hiding, and lined them up with their heads pressed against the surface beneath the central viewscreen, and their hands clasped behind their backs. Frisking them for concealed weapons, Izuru kicked a Cadian viciously in the shins when he tried to comfort the female NCO, whose right forearm was held together by nothing more than bloody shreds. The woman herself was crying quietly. Pained at the hurt I had caused her, I threw a dressing down between the two. When Izuru moved to accost the Cadian further, I grabbed her shoulder. "That's on me, that is."

Lusia had been quite right. And though I was fully aware of what Izuru was capable of, the hostage-taking, and the executioner's efficiency she had employed against the Cadians stirred an uneasy feeling in my heart.

"Did she leave any alive?" Lusia asked me after she had seen the two Cadians that were lying in the corridor.

"You weren't there. You didn't see what she saw," I said coldly. "You expecting a slaughter, were you?"

"I am surprised you managed to rein her in," Lusia remarked on seeing the half dozen personnel under Izuru's guard. "A lone xenos running amok bodes poorly for any that tread in her path."

"Yeah. Stand beside her or follow her. Just don't ever get in her way, God forbid."

"I would have thought she would rub off on you. Fill your head with blood-soaked thoughts."

Choosing to withhold a reply, I gestured impatiently for the others to enter the command centre. "Bring it in, you lot."

Passing over custody of the prisoners to the Highlanders, Izuru joined Lusia, Cyrano, and I. The techpriestess was pouting, and did not look at all happy to be in Izuru's company.

"Are you hurt, either of you?" Cyrano asked concernedly. "We didn't know whether to follow you in or not."

"Nah, we're good, pal." I passed the Tova and the spare magazine back to Kasabo, receiving my Kazalak in return. "Oi, cheers for that loan." Kasabo said nothing in return. All four of the service troops looked downright depressed at seeing their own lying dead at our hands.

"Lusia, I need you to find out how to open the main gate," I said. "Give us a nice diversion."

Glowering, Lusia half-turned towards the prisoners. "Let these men and women go first."

"Hold on." I went and squatted beside the nearest Cadian. "You part of the skeleton staff?"

"Yes, sir." The Cadian sniffed.

"When were you planning on evacuating?"

"I don't know, sir. Our major did not say."

"Right, well your plan's changed. I'm sending you out with some of mine. You'll go together to one of the hangars, find a ship and standby. It's every man for himself now. I've seen what it's like outside these walls. The city's lost. D'you honestly want to die here for the Emperor?"

Returning to Izuru, Lusia, and Cyrano, I announced what the plan would be. "Two teams. Me, Sniper, Lusia, and Azar will be heading up to Arrakis Tower. Cyrano, you've got control of everyone else. Take them to the hangar in Tleilax. You'll be with a lot of Cadians, so it'll be easier for you to bluff your way along."

"Use the map to plot our route?" Cyrano pointed at the three-dimensional layout of the Citadel's grounds.

"Yep, good idea. Sorry we can't spare Lusia, but it's absolutely vital she does her thing for the Archmagos. Lusia, you 'eard correct, we're taking those Cadians out with us. Now, please open that gate."

With reluctance in her eyes, Lusia went from console to console, searching for the override. In the minutes she was surveying the command centre, I passed the details on to Azar, the Highlanders, and the four Cadians. All seven took it in without complaint; except Azar.

"Why am I going with you – why not with Cyrano?" Azar scowled, confused at my decision.

"Security, mate."

Lusia piping up gave me an excuse not to have to deal with Azar anymore. "I have it," she said.

Climbing up to Lusia, I stood at her shoulder and looked across an unremarkable set of dials and buttons. "Well, go on then, let's have it. Get them gates open and we'll be off."

To my ignorant eye, it looked like Lusia was punching any old random assortment of buttons and skimming over layers of holo-screens as they flashed up, swiping each one aside with barely a glance whilst shifting her gaze between them and the arm-mounted cogitator she was using.

" _Lockdown lifted_." A cold mechanical voice boomed over speakers in the corners of the ceiling. Simultaneously, the lights cut out, and red emergency lighting flashed. An alarm began to wail.

"Was that s'posed to happen?" Lorne, looking around in dismay, shouted.

"Dunno." Borens began dragging the prisoners to their feet. "C'mon, move. Up you get."

"That did something, alright." Azar climbed up on to a console beneath the slit and peered through the gap at the bullet-resistant glass. "Bloody gate's lifting. Gonna be a lot of Zekes with hard cocks comin' through."

"Sniper!" I called, waving Izuru over to the wide, circular door – more a portal – that led out of the command centre. "Stack up on the other side. Cyrano, have you got your route plotted?"

"Hang on." Cyrano was having trouble following the corridors, the flashing lights playing havoc with his eyes.

Lusia had followed me up to the portal when, opening the junction box hidden behind a panel, she whispered to me. "Do not place your faith in the xenos. She will lead you to your destruction."

Wary of Izuru catching my eye, I shook my head. "Nothing doing. We're a team."

"I urge you to act before she brings about our downfall. Do not let your feelings blindfold you."

"Nothing doing." There was nothing else to be discussed on the matter. "What's our route out of 'ere then, Lusia?" I said, loud enough for Izuru to hear.

"We turn left. The bearded man must head right."

I snorted. "That simple, is it?"

"I would rather keep matters as simple as they can be. Let us not overcomplicate the situation with unnecessary bumpf."

"It's Cyrano. And don't be yanking on his beard again, Lusia. Alright?"

"I apologise."

"Not to me. To him."

"James?" Izuru said. "Ready yourself."

"Cyrano, over 'ere, mate." I waved for the cavalryman to come up to my position. "You know where to—?"

"Right turn out of this room. Then the second left, and straight on." Cyrano grinned.

"Oh, whack-ho." I punched him on the arm.

"I would offer my apologies for violating your sacred possession, Cyrano," Lusia said quickly.

Beaming, Cyrano pressed his palms together. "Omnissiah watch over you, lady."

Unlocking the door, Lusia signalled with a tap on my shoulder. " _Okay_ ," I mouthed to Izuru, who was hunching low with her Roga shouldered. " _Move_."

Stepping across the threshold, I kept Izuru in the corner of my eye, alert for any Interior Guard showing up. Exchanging firing hands, I swept the Red Rifle's muzzle around the corner, aiming down the corridor, emulating Izuru, who was covering the other direction.

"Clear," she said.

"Clear. Cyrano, mate, move your lot out."

"Take care of yourself, James. I want to see all of you on that shuttle." Cyrano touched my arm then moved over to Izuru. "Keep them safe, now. I trust you."

"Likewise. I will keep in touch. Be safe."

Remaining in my position, I heard the retreating footsteps of Cyrano's group, and the eventual silence, save the alarm and the muffled gunfire now coming from the open gate.

* * *

 **Kraf Airbase, 15:30**

Harried constantly by the accurate bombings and gun-runs, Zeke's aggressive probes along the streets had stalled. Mortars and artillery were still raining in, but transports were flying in, landing, taking on men, and departing like clockwork.

"Are we keeping a tally of how many men evacuated?" Colonel Venant asked Captain Meynell.

"Numbers are being recorded by transport officers aboard the Phalanx, Colonel. All evacuees are being ferried there."

"Excellent. Makes up for losing the destroyers," Venant said, scratching at the stubble underneath his chin. "Would you consider taking a transport up to Phalanx, Don?"

"Not on your life, Will." Lapraik smiled. "I'll leave when you leave."

"Well, I won't leave unless Captain Meynell leaves first."

"And I certainly won't be leaving before General Rebbeck," said Meynell. "And General Rebbeck will be behind Creed as the last man off."

"Have we heard anything from General Creed?" Lapraik asked.

"Only that he took to the Elysion Fields with The Lord Castellan's Own. We have our own matters to deal with here."

A signals rating, seated in front of a vox set, turned and handed a transcript to Meynell. "Sir, from the _Ionia._ "

Meynell had to control himself to keep his hands from screwing up the paper. " _Ionia_ struck with air-to-air missiles, bows and amidships, 15:27. Unable to make orbit. We are going down."

"That's five-thousand men!" Venant exclaimed.

"Six-thousand," Lapraik said.

"Were coordinates transmitted?" Meynell asked his signaller.

"Yes, sir, here." The signaller tore off a hastily-scribbled note and handed it back to Meynell.

"Lake Scutula," Meynell muttered, processing the nine-digit grid reference in his head then twice to be certain. "Were the Imperial Fists not flying cover?"

His hand pressed against his headset, the signaller replied, "unknown, sir. The Fists are operating on their own TAC FREQ. They're not liaising with our ground controllers, sir. They engage only what they wish to engage."

"Excuse me, Captain, I need a smoke." He eyes cast downwards in gloom, Lapraik left the shelter.

Meynell was prevented from brooding over the loss of _Ionia_ when a further signal came through. It was from Admiral Quarren.

The communique was short, and gave Meynell and all ground and naval personnel their marching orders. "Admiral Battlefleet Cadia to Senior Naval Officers destroyers and gunboats off Cadia. The final evacuation is staged for tonight, and the Imperium looks to the Imperial Navy to see this through. I want every ship to report as soon as possible, whether she is fit to meet the call, which has been made on our courage and dire endurance."

Nodding, Venant hazarded a guess. "Evacuation completed by midnight tonight?"

"No exact time is specified." Meynell folded the transcript and pocketed it. "If possible, I would imagine the admiral will continue to run it until just before dawn. So, we must continue to do our duty to the Emperor, each and every one of us. Anybody left tomorrow will be at the mercy of the enemy."

* * *

 **Solarus District, 16:12**

The cataclysmic explosion brought Wharton round. Slipping down against a crumbling wall, he stared at the rising column of smoke, his jaw quivering. " _Corta_ ," he whispered. _Throne, he's gone._

"Wharton!" Arrigo cried. "Where are you?"

Clutching his throat, Wharton bit down upon a sob, trying not to choke. "M'here, mate."

"Where's Corta?" Arrigo and Kinas burst from the clouds of dust hanging over the street, running over to Wharton.

"Corta's gone, man. We're going to bastion now. Iggery, like." Wharton coughed and spat dirty phlegm at his feet. "I'm in charge now. Move your arses."

Accepting no assistance from Arrigo or Kinas, Wharton got to his feet and pushed on. Unarmed, with his skin blistering from the heat given off by the smoke grenades he had dumped, Wharton strode through the rubble, continually glancing up at the looming bastion, the sole intact structure for many blocks around. His dead mates were shouting their names at him in his mind.

"Len, hold up," Arrigo panted.

"Slow down, mate, we're ballbagged here," Kinas moaned.

"Mate, your back's fucked up. Oi, Len, Kinas is hit. We've gotta stop."

Throwing himself down, Wharton sat with his shoulders drooping, and his chin resting on his chest. Reaching for his chinstrap, he undid the clasp and tipped his cover off. Arrigo had sat Kinas down nearby and examined his back.

"Is it bad?"

"Nah, you're grand." Arrigo picked up Kinas's M-36 and pressed it into his hands. "Keep her close now."

Heading over to Wharton, Arrigo's optimistic outlook evaporated on the spot when he told him. "His back's shredded by frag. He needs a surgeon."

"No shit." Wharton rose, leaving his cover at his feet. "I'm through."

"Yeah, you, me, and him." Arrigo thrust Wharton's cover at him. "Don't be daft. Not now."

Sitting his pot on his head, Wharton wandered away in a strange state of calm.

"Kinas, step off." Arrigo whistled. "Not far now."

All three squatted where they were when a growing _whoosh_ of rocket artillery swept over their heads like an invisible wave. Arising in the wake of the nearby rocket strike, warm ash was carried through the air, finding its way into the three grunts' nostrils, eyes, and mouths.

 _Death_ , Arrigo thought. _Nothing else smells like it._

Savage cracks of rounds cutting paths through the dust halted the three. Kinas, Arrigo noted, was hunched over unnaturally, a tight expression on his face. He would be in severe pain once the shock wore off, which looked to be quite soon. A blast of noise, and another transport soared away into the sky, its jet-wash pierced by tracers and particle beams. _We're so close_.

Tugging the arm of the flagging Kinas around his neck, Arrigo called to Wharton, "Len, slow down, I'm losing you."

Laughter from Zeke jerked Arrigo around. Pointing his M-36 in the direction the laughter had come from, Arrigo grunted at Kinas. "Come on, Kinas, use your legs. There's nothing wrong with your legs, is there?"

It took Arrigo a while to work out that he was hauling a dead-weight along with him. Long enough for Wharton to move out of sight.

"Kinas. You alright, fella?" Arrigo lowered the silent grunt down to the ground. "Don't be playing with me now. I'm not in the mood." He felt for the grunt's pulse, angrily blocking out any thoughts that he might be dead. "Kinas, I'm not playing." Gripping the grunt's hands, Arrigo ground his teeth together. "Stupid bastard. You bloody idiot!"

Incoming rounds punching holes in the dirt around Arrigo cut short his grief-fuelled tirade. Letting his M-36 fall, Arrigo ran after Wharton, falling ash landing inside his mouth and sticking to his tongue. Bellying through a glass-strewn window-frame that was half-buried in the grey snowdrift, Arrigo felt a white-hot needle plunge into his right leg, at the same time, Wharton's hands dragged him through the glass shards.

"Where's Kinas?" Wharton shouted.

"With Corta!"

Now supporting the wounded Arrigo, Wharton pulled him along as the two grunts were pursued by enemy fire. A screech of a rocket-propelled grenade made both grunts scream as the warhead demolished a wall not ten feet from where they were, pelting them with rubble and dust. On his knees, Wharton felt his head droop, as if on the verge or slumber. Beside him, Arrigo stirred, and dragged himself up on to his elbows. It looked like half the road was plastered to the side of his face. Expecting a follow-on thunderclap of a rocket, Wharton slapped a hand against his right ear, hearing nothing. " _Gotta move_ ," he tried to say, hoping to pierce the silence. " _Arrigo_." He shook Arrigo, pressing the other's arms against his sides, and dragging him upright. " _C'mon, lad, let's go_."

Bundling Arrigo over a broken ledge, Wharton slapped him back and forth across the face. "Hey, we're almost there. You're alright, mate, you're alright."

Pale with fright, the only colour in his face the dark circles underneath his eyes, Arrigo bobbed his head up and down.

"C'mon, up you come." Wharton supported Arrigo once more, helping him through a nest of destroyed habs. Weary beyond all regard, both grunts, unarmed, and hunted mercilessly felt the lead in their boots, and the aching blisters, popped and swollen, rubbing against the leather. It was the pain that drove Wharton on; only the pain now that C-for-Cannon was gone.

"Len, behind us!" Arrigo cried. "Gun truck!"

Still hearing bells, Wharton threw a look behind, seeing a six-wheeled flatbed with a Krupnok .50-calibre mounted upon it appear from a side-street behind them. Locking its wheels, the gun truck came to a halt, Zekes dismounting.

Pulling the hopping Arrigo away, Wharton put on a burst of speed, the stagger becoming a brisk stumble.

"Hey, we're there. It's right up there; look!" Arrigo yapped.

His lungs burning from Arrigo's weight, Wharton fired spittle from between his teeth, wetting his chin. They were on the same road they had crossed earlier in the day, when C and R Company had departed the bastion for the Kriegan Gates. The positions the Cadians had been manning – the sandbags – were still there.

"C'mon, you lazy bastards, give us some cover!" Arrigo waved frantically. "C'mon, shoot. Do something!"

"Shuddup, Arrigo. Don't give 'em ideas…" Wharton spluttered.

"Aah, don't you worry, mate. S'all gonna be fine—"

Invisible hands tore Arrigo away from Wharton. Spun around by the unexpected force, Wharton slipped over, landing heavily, his out-flung hand breaking his fall. Blinking through blurred vision, Wharton saw the dinnerplate-sized holes perforating Arrigo's torso, and the shroud of blood he was drowning in. Wide, spiritless eyes were turned down towards the ravaged road surface. Limp fingers had reached out to Wharton in his final moments, but found no comfort, just the cold, pitiless air, and the heartbreak of dying alone.

 _That's not on_ , thought Wharton, looking up at the bastion, a stone's throw away. Rising slowly, the signaller began to trudge towards the smoking muzzles of the Cadian guns. Pointing up at the faces he could not see, Wharton made a finger-gun and muttered. " _Shoot me. I dare you_."

Finding his stride, Wharton felt his voice grow. "Shoot me. Oi, shoot me! Shoot me!" Imaginary bullets came from his weapon, blasting through the firing slits and burrowing into Cadian bodies, confirming each and every one of the Guardsmen who had wasted his one remaining friend in front of him.

"SHOOT ME!" He screamed. The fusillade issued was of such a pitiful quantity, Wharton, enraged, hurled one last cry at the Cadians, unaware of his body crumpling beneath him, and the road rushing up to slam into his head. " _T_ _hat all you got?_ " he croaked.

* * *

 **IMT _Ionia_ , Lake Scutula, 15:34**

The odd sensation of _Ionia_ keeling over to port was felt when the deck began to tilt. At once, crewmen began to shout for the passengers to all move to the starboard side, in the hope of righting the stricken vessel. Among many that were climbing up the outside of _Ionia's_ hull, Joe's stomach plummeted when he realised that the steep slope they were scaling was slowly rolling away from them. "Aimo, hang on to me!" He shouted.

"Alright, I've got you," Aimo replied from just beneath, his hand around Joe's trouser belt. "Don't like that feeling. Don't like it at all."

"Just hang on. Is Peter still there?"

"Yeah, he's still there."

Leading his party up narrow steps that jutted out from the upper hull, Joe reached the top just in time to see the ungodly number of troops that were already sitting on _Ionia's_ back. The crowds were quite unending in every direction Joe looked. Shouts of dismay and fright were heard as the feeling of _Ionia_ listing over to port prompted those closest to the port side to push and shove at those nearer to starboard. In the rush, Joe had to dig his heels into the smooth hull, along with others, to stop themselves being propelled overboard. Thankfully there were enough men between Joe and those frantically pushing against them to curb the initial force, saving him, Ral, Aimo, Peter, and Tom from falling.

"It's alright, Guardsmen, keep your heads!" One of _Ionia's_ officers, a young man brandishing a stub revolver, fought to keep the mass migration to manageable levels with a few ratings to do the strong-arming for him. "You don't all have to move. She'll stay afloat, just keep the numbers even. I need a few men to move back to the port side."

"Oi, look, look!" A bare-headed Cadian cried, pointing up. In the mid-afternoon sky, a black speck of a four-engined bomber had appeared, coming from the north.

"That one of ours?" Tom wondered, turning Aimo's head in the direction the bomber was coming from.

"Space Marines?" Somebody shouted hopefully.

"The Fists?"

"We wish…" Ral muttered. "Hang on tight here, Peter." He squeezed the boy's shoulders.

"Aw, thanks for the emotional support, mate." Tom's face contorted as he eased his aching backside down onto the plate. "This bloody hurts, you know. Thought getting shot in the flabby bits would be better than getting it in the arm or leg."

"Shut-up, Tom." Joe licked his lips nervously. Before he could voice his fears, another beat him to it.

"That's enemy!"

"Everyone jump!"

"Swim for it!"

"Every man for himself!"

" _Throne…"_ Joe's skin bristled with goose-flesh, the hairs standing up ramrod straight. "Hang on to me now, Aimo. Don't let go."

"What we doing, Joe?" Tom's head was on a swivel, turning this way and that, hoping somebody had a plan. Now the troops were aware of the mortal peril they were in, a chunk of those that had rushed from port to starboard now went back to the port side, which was furthest from the approaching bomber. This pell-mell rush overwhelmed the sailors and the armed officer, who were powerless to stop the Guardsmen from jumping the seventy feet down into the water below. Still on the starboard side, Joe heard the splashes as men broke the surface. _No, too high_ , he thought. There weren't enough swimmers amongst them to make jumping at this early stage a favourable choice.

"How d'you inflate this thing?" Aimo searched for the tab to inflate his life-preserver. "Peter, you do yours too."

"No, not yet. We're too high." Joe warned. "Wait till the ship sinks lower. We'll go then."

"Wait?!" Ral shrieked. "We gotta go now. He's coming straight for us."

Unable to prevent the first wave of soldiers throwing themselves from _Ionia_ , into what they believed was the water below, First Officer Gartlan Mallis fired his pistol in to the air, bellowing himself senseless for the soldiers to remain aboard. Unbeknownst to them, _Ionia_ was sinking in such a way that those that had jumped immediately were crashing headfirst on to the hull plates close to or just underneath the waterline, and amid terrible screams, were killing themselves.

The growing drone of the bomber brought Mallis whirling round. The ratings that had clambered up on to the hull with him were clueless as to what to do. They had all looked down upon the ghastly spectacle beneath them; men's heads that looked, at first glance, to be coconuts bobbing innocently in the oily water.

"Valkyrie!" A Cadian's shout dragged Mallis's attention from the bomber, and over to a much smaller, faster aircraft coming up from the south. _Is he going for the bomber?_ Mallis stared at the gunship as it blasted over _Ionia's_ now-submerged nose. Not even a gunship, a lightly-armed transport. What was the pilot, brazenly taking on a powerhouse such as a Marauder, hoping to accomplish?

* * *

 **Valkyrie 229**

"Arun, you there?" Waldo said, after turning his intercom back on. 229 was now facing the Marauder squarely, with only the vast, open sky separating the two.

"Hugh, don't ever turn the intercom off again," Arun retorted angrily, but losing the bite in his tone immediately after. "We're going after the bomber then, alright, it's your call."

"Irv, Russ, strap Ori down tight then assume your positions. Retract the guns and seal the doors."

"Roger that, Hugh," Russ replied. Even over the intercom Waldo could detect the heavy heart with which Russ was now operating with. _No, I'm not dwelling on it now_. _Let's do our jobs_.

Flying over the sinking nose of the giant, Waldo quite clearly saw men jumping from the top of the hull. Oddly, there was no activity in the water below, nobody swimming away from the doomed vessel; not a peep. Just splashes as bodies entered the water. _That's what they'll all be, if we don't do this,_ Waldo thought, lining his heart with steel, and shutting away the hurt he felt for Ori.

As if eager to go nose-to-nose with the slick, the bomber made a deliberate correction to its heading, the pilot turning the scoop-shaped nose towards Waldo.

"Arun, arm those Mark Fourteens. I'm gonna try something once we're coming up on her stern."

"Roge. AGMs armed."

Daring the Marauder to break from its head-on course, Waldo tilted his yoke back into his chest when the bomber began to gain altitude. The crack that had appeared underneath its belly – the bomb-bay doors opening – promptly disappeared as the bombardier, seated somewhere inside the box-like fuselage, got cold feet, afraid of exposing the ordnance stored in his ship's underbelly.

 _1000 yards. Spitting distance_. Waldo drew his glowing cross-hairs up, resting it a fraction ahead of the Marauder, and squeezed his trigger. Spitting from the Scara's muzzle, the invisible particle beams struck the Marauder's chin dead-centre, scoring marks upon the hard-point. Right off the bat, the Marauder replied, perforating the air around the slick with swarms of cannon shells, the noise – a horde of giant, invisible hornets – buzzing over, under, and around, completely bracketing Waldo; made his single battery look feeble when faced with three pairs of 20-millimetre autocannons.

A crash above and behind brought an amber warning light flashing upon Waldo's instrument panel. _Oil pressure_.

"Hugh, engine two took fire, we've got an oil leak," Arun shouted over the buffeting the cannon-fire was causing. "I'm shutting down the starboard pump."

"Roge." Waldo rolled the slick to port, throttling back on the starboard engine whilst giving the port more thrust. He was outgunned, badly, and the enemy pilot knew it, ceasing fire the moment Waldo broke off the engagement. One transport was not nearly enough to whet the appetite of the Marauder. It sought a choicer quarry, one that did fritter about in the sky like a fly, or shoot back stubbornly.

Mindful of the vicious armament the Marauder packed in its nose, Waldo skirted the bomber, as a hound would its prey, vying to draw in behind the twin fin-and-rudders, and get a good run-up.

"Hugh, watch the port engine, she's taking excessive strain," Arun warned.

"Temperature?"

"1500 degrees."

"Roge." Waldo throttled back, grimacing behind his oxygen mask. The bomber was almost over _Ionia_. He imagined the full bomb-racks, gently trembling cylinders, each bearing hundreds of pounds of high-explosive, and the bombardier's eager fingers caressing the commit-button. Opening up with the Scara, Waldo blinked in surprise when the distant Marauder veered lazily to port, exposing its underside to the soldiers on top of the ship. _Did I hit it?_

Thin streaks of green light, arcing from the Marauder's ventral ball turret, scoured the packed hull, scything through the crush of men with the ease of a laser through alloy. Too far to get a good view of the packed slaughter, Waldo squeezed his yoke in anger, fuming at the havoc the guns wrought upon the defenceless soldiers. Then, the bomber began dropping flares in a bid to ignite the clouds of starship fuel spreading from the ruptures in _Ionia's_ hull.

"Russ, you hanging in there?" Waldo asked. "Irv, how's Ori doing?"

"…Shrapnel pinging 'round us, Hugh. Some of it nicked me," Russ replied scratchily. "Ori's out. I gave him morphine and put Irv's flak jacket over him."

"Irv's – why?"

"He won't be needing it."

The brief second of grief that coursed through Waldo's insides sapped his will to fight, draining it like a holed water butt. Gulping down as much oxygen as his mask would provide, Waldo shut his eyes, re-opening them when he remembered the pillars of fire spurting up from the oil slicks, and the peril those men were in.

"Understood, Russ. Keep yourself and Ori safe," Waldo replied phlegmatically.

Clearly the bomber believed the solitary Valkyrie to be no threat, why else would it have not dropped its bombs on its first pass? _She'll be coming around for another go_ , thought Waldo, _then she'll drop her load._

* * *

Convinced the giant was about to release its bellyful of bombs, Joe crouched as low to the hull as he could, pulling Peter and Aimo down next to him. Spotty lasfire from Cadians who had retained their small-arms, had no discernible effect on the bomber, their M-36s pinpricks on the beast's impenetrable hide. Splashes as more men tried to jump for it were lost in the bellow of the jet engines. Then, banking to port, the bomber veered off. Believing themselves saved by an unknown miracle, Joe heard a crackle – a giant breaking handfuls of sticks – and winced as hammers banged across the hull, drumming a staccato rhythm of death, annihilating whatever it touched. Wet smacks came and went as bodies were eviscerated, collapsing in on themselves in bloody clouds of flesh and splintered bone. A crisp _ding_ sounded as a round connected with a ceramite cover, blowing everything inside clean off. Flares were fired from launchers underneath the wings, soaring down to the oil-covered water, setting huge patches of it alight.

"Oh, let that be the last of it, please," Tom yammered, his fingers in his ears.

"Everyone okay?" Joe nudged Peter by the shoulder. "Okay?"

"Y-yeah, Joe." Tom raised his head slowly, reaching over Ral to take Peter's hand. "S'alright, lad."

"Is he bugging out?" Ral, petrified, gaped at the trails of blood now dripping over the hull, and the shredded material, torn scraps of it fluttering in the air.

Lifting his head from where he had leant it against the hull, Mallis watched the Marauder fly off, making a gentle turn northwards. _Where were the bombs?_

"Is that all he's got?" A rating voiced Mallis's worry aloud. "God-Emperor. If he's carrying a payload…"

A rumbling underneath Mallis's feet momentarily displaced his fear of the Marauder's return. _Throne, is that the promethium?_ Groaning like a beast in pain, _Ionia_ shuddered. _Where's that Valkyrie?_ Mallis spread his feet as he squatted, bracing one knee against the plate for balance. Through the dirty lenses of his glasses, Mallis saw the miniscule shape of the Valkyrie, far away to the north. _Come on, get a run-up behind him. Scare him off. Do something!_

Deciding staying on the hull was pointless, Mallis made to climb backwards down the steps. Captain Averell was still inside the ship, having promised to stay and continually rap out a distress call whilst _Ionia_ was still afloat. That the nose had slipped underwater was no deterrent to the brave captain, though Mallis was under no illusions that the ship's superstructure would hold if it was bombed, or if the fuel stores went up. Letting himself down past stragglers still leaving the ship, Mallis swung back inside the airlock. Smoke was rising from the nearest companionway, steadily filling the airlock corridor. Mallis made it halfway down the stairs, before the smoke forced him back.

"No use, sir, it's a furnace down there!" A rating that had followed Mallis back inside helped the officer to the airlock. "When that fuel goes off…"

"We won't be here," Mallis coughed. "God, what a disaster!"

Tainting the air now were grey clouds of smoke, giving off a muggy, tar-like stench that only burning fuel made. Great gouts of it had spread across the water, many patches of it ablaze. Those tiny few that had safely made the jump were, quite simply, fried like sausages in a frying pan.

As Mallis made the top of the steps, a panicked cry was given. "Look out, he's coming back!"

"Strike a light…" Mallis muttered, glassing the bomber, which had made a full turn, and was now pointing its nose at _Ionia_. A black line was splitting the Marauder's belly, gradually exposing its internals to the open air, becoming a yawning maw filled with finned canisters of death; eager to spread themselves over the floundering troopship, letting those trapped upon the hull in on its nasty secrets.

* * *

Cruising on a much-reduced velocity, Waldo drew in behind the bomber, at a comparatively safe distance of 1800 yards, where the rear-gunner would have trouble ranging his shells, and opened fire. Convinced the Scara was knocking seven shades out of the weak rear armour, Waldo let loose with a second burst, increasing the magnification of his ocular gunsight when he wasn't sure whether or not he was scoring hits.

"She's taking her hits, Hugh. We're doing good," Arun said. "Bit more, then—"

"Wait, she's turning." Waldo's trigger-finger slackened. The Marauder's port wing was dipping.

"Reckon she's had enough?"

"Yeah, maybe."

"Shall we—?"

No longer under fire, the bomber righted, and was once again flying straight and level.

"Cheeky bastard. He was feinting!" Waldo touched the throttle, further adding strain to the port engine. _I don't think the Scara did a thing there. Throne_ , _is she really that tough a customer?_

"Hugh, watch it, we're getting in range. Those cannons…"

As alert for the walloping of HE shells as his co-pilot was, Waldo replied, "closer we get, the better our chances of nailing this thing." It was not to say that the damage dealt by the Scara would be greater, just that a bigger target would offer more ways in which to hurt it. _Death of a thousand cuts_ , Waldo thought, scrutinising the twin tail-fins of the bomber, as it grew in his sights. She was still a few thousand yards from her target, and was making no effort to avoid any further incoming fire. Quite familiar with the nuisance of the multi-laser, the Zeke pilot kept a level heading, inviting the Valkyrie to come closer and take a chance.

At 800 yards, Waldo tried again, jamming his forefinger around the trigger on his yoke, and observing the burns the Scara was inflicting upon the Marauder's fuselage. Well within effective range now, the tail-gunner answered Waldo with his own twin-linked 20-millimetre, the tracers coughing loudly as they zipped towards their target. Skidding to port, Waldo pressed the rudder pedals, keeping his nose up and on target. Shrewdly awaiting Waldo's next barrage, the tail-gunner relented. _Cunning sod_. Waldo squinted at the tiny barrels of the tail-guns, trying to guess the gunner's thoughts. _How d'you like it when they shoot back at you?_

Letting the slick's motion guide his sights across the righthand engine on the starboard wing, Waldo gave the cigar-shaped turbine a spraying. The reply from the tail-gunner was instant and ferocious. 20-millimetre banged off the armour plating on the slick's wings, jerking Waldo's aim all around the sky. Pinging angrily, the returning fire began to find its mark, striking on the fuselage and slicing pieces from the tail-booms. Hanging on determinedly, Waldo managed a third-of-a-second's burst upon both engines on the starboard wing, until the enemy gunner's equally dogged defence of his aircraft forced Waldo to break away.

"Solid hit, Hugh," Arun cried, "zipped both starboard engines there. They're smoking."

"Arun, tell me how she's holding. Gimme a damage-rep!" Waldo worked his tongue across the dry roof of his mouth. _Not sure we can commit ourselves again. Too dangerous._

Never mind the damage they had taken, the Marauder was still flying on a level heading, even with its starboard engines now gushing out black smoke. _What drives this man?_ Waldo fretted, keeping his mounting anxiety contained.

"Arun, those Mark Fourteens. I want you to fire both on my mark."

"Okay, standing by."

Almost able to look the tail-gunner in the eye, Waldo slipped into the 20-millimetre's killing zone. With nothing more than a few hundred yards separating the hornet and the fly, the former unleashed the sting in its tail with full force, desperate to shake the slick's implacable pursuit. Concentrating for all he was worth, Waldo fought to hold his yoke steady, the incoming fire threatening to jar his aim.

"Three. Two. One. Mark."

On 'mark', the two AGMs, their rocket-motors igniting half a second apart, shot out from underneath the wings. Dumb-fired – there was no way to lock on to an aerial target – the Mk. 14s travelled on an arrow-straight trajectory, two grey fingers rocketing at the Marauder's stern. Had it not taken evasive action, both warheads would have detonated, obliterating the aircraft. Yet, not even half a second after the missiles were in the air, the pilot pulled his nose up, giving a helping of port rudder, manoeuvring just enough for the Mk. 14s to pass by underneath him. Losing airspeed, the Marauder was suddenly in Waldo's sights, the tail-gunner having to work to re-acquire him. With no better opening, Waldo drew the blazing Scara across the damaged engines, walking his fire from right to left, skimming the underbelly, and the wide-open bomb-bay doors. Interrupting Waldo, the tail-gunner flung lead back at him. But Waldo kept firing, keeping to his mark, and pouring beam after beam into the portside engines, ignoring the sound of the cracking canopy behind him and the shriek over the intercom. Delivering a solid, three-second-long burst of continuous fire, Waldo broke away, damning the super-human effort the Marauder had taken to bring down. Watching the bomber tearing to port, Waldo nodded in satisfaction at the thick trails of smoke billowing from three of the engines. One of the starboard turbines had caught fire too.

 _Good day to you, you bastard_. Waldo looked on as thin, wobbling cylinders dropped from the Marauder's belly. A full dozen bombs were now falling uselessly into the lake, the shockwaves no doubt being felt by the men in the water, many hundreds of yards away, but well outside the range of the ordnance's lethal radius.

His heartbeat recovering from the full orchestra it had become, Waldo levelled out. "Arun, talk to me. Russ, you alright back there?"

A dead silence had engulfed the slick, now that the heated duel was over. _Is that it?_ Waldo wondered, an empty feeling in his stomach. _Had I to give up my entire crew, in order to save those men down there?_ Giving a hopeful shake of his head, Waldo glanced down at his instrument panel, only just realising how badly shot up it was. Glass covering instruments had shattered, gathering in his lap and underneath the rudder pedals. Fragments of shells had torn gaping holes, exposing wires and other internals. Alarmingly, Waldo now felt a distinct wobble in his yoke. Searching for blood, Waldo found himself miraculously unscathed. Not a single rip in his flight suit, not a scratch or a speck of blood.

 _Now, let's pick these guys up_. Waldo eased off the throttle, giving his one operating engine respite from the thrashing it had taken. Killing his altitude, Waldo found the lever controlling the thrust nozzles and pulled it, expecting to feel the unnatural sensation that was the loss in velocity. When none came, Waldo peered out the front of his canopy, confused. Resetting the lever, he pulled it back. But again, nothing.

Sitting back in his seat, Waldo let his shoulders slump. Giving the expectant soldiers, many of whom were waving and shouting up at him, his weary eyes, Waldo stared, disconsolate, at those he had saved. All the effort spent, and he couldn't even lend them his aid. He could have fitted forty men, at a squeeze, in the troop bay, and borne them back to the evacuation point in the Korat district. But no, fate had denied him the means to grant them salvation. The guilt that ate away at his conscience was overtaken by the howls of fury and pleas for rescue Waldo imagined were being bellowed up at him. _Why doesn't he land? Why is he running away? We're down here, you coward!_

* * *

 **The Citadel, 15:40**

It was quite possibly the strangest company Olen Azar had ever kept. Coincidentally it was also the foulest. He couldn't quite work out why it was him being dragged along for 'security' as Larn had put it. _Why me and not Cyrano?_ He scowled, lagging behind the xenos, the techpriestess, and the rogue ex-sergeant. _Cyrano's their favourite. Why not drag him along on this silly roundabout route?_ For that matter, he didn't really have any real idea where he was being led, and was simply following the techpriestess's direction. _This is punishment for not helping Larn clear the control room. Has to be._

The stillness in the heart of the Citadel was breached by periodic announcements over public address, partly distorted by how echoey the speaker's voice was. All Azar could make out were bland statistics being read, as if the speaker was reciting it off a screen; if the speaker was human at all, and not just repeating pre-recorded messages to give the hats in charge something they could broadcast to the Citadel's staff. Just why they were still being played to the empty facilities was anybody's guess, as Azar had not seen a single Cadian since leaving the gatehouse control room. He imagined any Interior Guard fireteams remaining were being rushed to plug the beachhead Zeke was no doubt trying to establish. _Clever using that as a diversion_ , he thought. _Leaves us with the run of the place._

The precinct of the Citadel Azar had only ever seen in the many places of worship that dominated the fortress-cities on his home planet Nereus. Skulls set in the iron walls, spiked chandeliers sitting in brackets that hung from chains bolted to the vaulted ceiling, giant rivets running up and down the square pillars, all of it carved by a brutal hand, immeasurably ugly in its design, and downright creepy to the cook.

Treading on a carpet that reminded him too much of blood by the deep crimson it was dyed, Azar hurried after the techpriestess, continually looking over his shoulder for anybody that might be stalking them. A clenched fist from the stickie, who was up ahead with Larn, signalled him to stack up behind her, right before the corridor ended in an open doorway that led out in to a vast open space.

"Cyrano, status." The stickie held her autogun against her vest, her left hand touching the bead lodged in her ear. It rankled Azar that a xenos was speaking Gothic so clearly, and with only the tiniest trace of an accent in her voice. What dirty things had she been whispering in Larn's ear?

Leaning back lazily against the wall, and keeping a fair gap between himself and the xenos, Azar let his Lecta sit against his hip, giving his tired arms a rest. Batting at what he thought was a fly, Azar jumped when looked at his right shoulder, seeing a claw poking it.

"Bloody hell!" he yelped, skipping away from the techpriestess's probing arm. "What you doing?"

"Oi, shush!" Larn hissed, making a slicing motion at his neck.

The techpriestess, leaning against the wall with her hands behind her back, smiled sweetly, or at least the skin where her jaw was stretched in an approximation of a smile. The skin and thick lips were just that little bit too artificial-looking to pass off as genuine. More likely they were grafted on over an endoskeleton. Her feminine qualities stirred a feeling of revulsion in Azar. To him, a robot was only a machine. Trying to look too human was heresy.

"Understood," the stickie replied, nodding at Larn.

"Alright?"

"At present. Priestess, our route takes us to the right?"

"We skirt the atrium – the base of Arrakis Tower, yes." The priestess nodded, suddenly all business. "Observe carefully. There is little in the way of cover."

"Where then?" Larn asked.

"Turbolifts will take us up twenty-five floors to the archives."

"I thought the archives were thirty-two floors above the ground floor…" Larn frowned.

"We are on floor seven. The balcony out there overlooks the ground floor. Shall we depart?"

"Right. Sniper, point. Azar, cover our six. Look lively."

 _Throne, I don't want to be here, and I sure as hell don't want to be taking orders from Larn._ Azar followed the hem of the techpriestess's robes, holding his Lecta half-heartedly from the hip as he danced backwards, leaving the close confines of the corridor. Surprised at the open space he now found himself in, Azar nearly fell over himself when he saw the giddying heights above.

"Soldier!" the techpriestess whispered.

Turning a complete circle, Azar, dizzy, noticed the techpriestess waiting, crouched beside the balcony railing, for him. "Come." She beckoned.

Shaking his head clear, Azar came over. Larn and the stickie were moving at their own pace, the pair operating in sync. Curiously, Azar felt a spark of jealousy, and began to wish that he had a dependable partner in combat; somebody to watch where he couldn't. The old gang: Weld, Scurm, and the traitor Gale, despite fighting with them, had never been his friends. Azar never really had any friends after he had left school. He had begun to hate people, he realised. Nobody had ever really shown him any affection, outside the physical contact with whores. And even then, that was paid for, with nothing genuine about it.

"What is your name?" the techpriestess asked.

"Azar," Azar muttered, keeping his eyes straight ahead, refusing to look at the artificial eyes.

"I am Lusia." Lusia touched the AdMech medallion seated against her breast. "Are you one of Larn's friends?"

"A cook, ma-am," Azar said gruffly. "Just a damn cook who shouldn't 'ave left the kitchen. I shouldn't be here. Let's go, get up."

"Well then, why did Larn pick you instead of Cyrano?" Lusia asked.

"'Cause I'm expendable. Not worth shit to anybody," Azar said quietly, more to himself than to the techpriestess. "Being fucked with the shit-end of the stick. That's what I got."

Sneering, Azar waved the techpriestess ahead of him. "C'mon, move it."

"Then perhaps you will learn from this adventure. It is your actions that define you, Azar. Don't let the past burn you with shame. On our exodus from the Cadian System, you could become someone better. Start afresh."

"What d'you know about me, uh? You're not even human. Just a—" Breaking off, Azar shook his head. Lusia did not press him further. Wanting to forget the AdMech drone, Azar peered up at the impossibly high shaft the turbolifts would climb up. There were mirror-copies of the vaguely triangular-shaped walkway on every level above and below the floor he was on. The occasional servo-skull appeared from time to time, idly flitting about; possibly seeking its masters for fresh instructions. Truly, it seemed that Arrakis was deserted.

Taking the rightmost of the four lifts, the stickie held back, her autogun's muzzle pointed at the floor, as Larn pressed the call button. When the doors snapped open, the stickie aimed at the interior of the turbolifts and stepped in. "Clear," she called.

"Clear." Larn repeated, taking his off hand away from his rifle's foregrip and gesturing at Azar and Lusia to move inside. Once in, Azar and Lusia waited for Larn to back in behind them.

"Oi, still wanna throw some hands, mate?" Larn asked after a moment of quiet. He had leant against the wall opposite Azar, and had taken off his beret to scratch at his head. "Thought you wasn't so sure when we was leaving that stickie ship. If ever you want to, I'm game."

The mention of the stickie ship overturned more memories of the past, memories that, looking back, now baffled Azar. He still did not understand why xenos had come to their aid on Nemtess. But, if they hadn't, then neither him nor Larn would be having this conversation now.

"I'd have to be a lot more drunk to start dishing out fives wi' that stickie backing you up there, ya sod," Azar grunted.

" _Pfft_. So, let's have some then. We'll 'ave leave when we're off Cadia. I'll round up the lads then we march down the boozer for a crawl. You wanna overturn some tables with me, ballbag?"

"Just us lads?"

"Nerians-only. Get a club going, yeah?"

"But you ain't Nerian…"

"Nah, just a backwoods idiot who can't keep his stripes on his sleeve."

Interested now, Azar asked something he had never thought he would ask. "Where you actually from, Larn?"

"Do that over a pint, uh?" Larn winked. "Have a proper natter then, so we will."

"Alright, you got it." Azar shrugged, a little embarrassed at Larn's strange amiability. This wasn't the xenos exerting her influence over him, was it? The stickie had, so far, not said a word, though had kept her firing hand around the grip of her autogun. Remembering the cruel manner in which she had twisted Azar's ear on the stickie ship turned him off asking Larn who she was and what she was doing on Cadia alone. Even as an ally, she still frightened Azar, who pondered if Larn felt the same way about her. Azar would've needed to be blind in all regards to deny her beauty, which he begrudgingly admitted was quite startling. Her tall stature, pale skin, dark hair, and silent, watchful nature struck a wild thought in his head. _Is she his guardian angel?_

"Oi, back to work, lad." Larn nodded up at the dial set near the ceiling. It had reached XXXII. "You want to lead off?"

Balking at the thought of being on point, Azar opened his mouth to refuse. The expectant look given by Lusia, however, invited a little voice in his head to accept the challenge readily, for surely Larn was challenging Azar to do it just as good as he could. And Azar had already backed down once. To do it again would forever mark him as yellow in Larn's eyes.

"Alright, I'll do it."

"Good lad. Take us out of here and follow the corridor down."

"Left," Lusia said.

"Er, left. Go left." Larn made a face at Lusia.

Edging out onto the 32nd floor, Azar recognised the same hexagonally-shaped corridor he had seen below the ground floor. Curving supports were separated by darkened alcoves filled with naked wires and pipes. Square holes in the floor continually vented air, leaving a fine mist. _More skulls_ , he noted, trying not to look at them. _Are they real or just carvings?_

Provided by off-the-fly directions that Lusia whispered to him, Azar moved through the nests of grinning skulls, quite desperate now to come across someone, anyone that still occupied the tower; even if it was only Interior Guard. _A facility this big shouldn't be this seedy,_ Azar thought, giving Larn a nervous look, receiving a warning to keep his eyes ahead in return.

"There – to your right," Lusia said.

"Where?" Azar had become lost in the ups and downs of the tower. There was not a single wall map or overhead sign telling him where he was.

"Here." Lusia's wide sleeve hung down from her arm as she pointed out a sealed bulkhead door. The only indicator that it was something different was the angle at which it sat. Every door before it was dead flat, grey, and completely uniform. This one was shaped like a half-dome, and split down the centre by a red security seal.

"This one here." Azar called to Larn and the stickie.

Tapping Larn on the shoulder, the stickie came over, miming with two fingers for Azar to watch the opposite direction Larn was covering.

"Can you gain entry?" the stickie asked Lusia.

"Affirmative. Amaranth-level clearance is necessary to carry us across the threshold."

"Well, do you have it?"

"Mmm, say please."

"Lusia, please open the door," Azar whispered. _Don't piss the xenos off_ , he added inwardly.

"Lusia, we're in your hands here," Larn said. "Do as she says."

A sly grin that somehow reached Lusia's eyes disturbed Azar. The techpriestess was enjoying this jaunt, apparently ignorant of the treasonous acts she was committing for Larn and the stickie. What business did she have in the archives anyway?

Parting, the two halves slid back on tiny wheels built into tracks in the floor, sucking in air from the outside with a _whoosh_.

"Is it just AdMech personnel working in there, then?" Larn instinctively ducked his head.

"On most occasions, organics would operate outside of the main chamber, leaving the menial tasks to the drones," said Lusia. "We are not most occasions."

"Hmph, guess not. Sniper, move in."

"Moving."

Feeling a slap on his shoulder, Azar followed Larn in to the archive, swearing loudly when he saw the data towers.

Echoing him, Larn added, "exactly, mate."

Suspended over a drop of unfathomable depth were multiple railed platforms, each with fifty-foot-high data towers; glowing blue monoliths built in two rows of four.

Leaning over the balustrade, Azar gulped at the long drop. "Wouldn't want to work 'ere for a living."

"Wouldn't you want to know all the dirty little secrets they keep hidden in here?" Larn replied.

"What is it she's after then?" Azar nodded at the stickie, further along the path. "Why'd she drag you and Lusia up 'ere. It's opposite of where we're going, innit?"

Larn shrugged. "Something to do with her parents… finding out who her mother was. I dunno…"

"Yeah, but in't this an imperial archive? What's she gonna find? Won't be xenos stuff 'ere, surely."

"Uh, search me, mate. I'm just a passenger, like you."

"Thought you were in charge. I'm not taking no orders from no stickie."

"Joint agreement. We're both making decisions. Though, hand on heart, she won't ever give you orders. I'll be doin' that."

"Great. Makes me feel a lot better."

"Hey, see that platform up there on the left. It's got elevation. You can cover us and the door from there." Larn pointed out a platform adjacent to the platform Lusia and the stickie were heading to.

"Uhh, how do I…?"

"See them stairs there?" Larn, helpfully, had noticed an affair with iron railings that spiralled up to the other platform. "Take the Grapo." He unslung his grenade launcher and passed it to Azar. "Have the bandolier too. The thing's not loaded. Go on, iggery."

Holding his Lecta in one hand and the Grapo in the other, Azar ran over to the staircase and hopped up to the other platform, once more wondering why he was doing what he was doing.

"Fucking madness," Azar said to himself, pressing back on the spring release of the Grapo's bore, and slotting a fat cartridge in. "What are you doing, you clot?"

Leaning on the balustrade, Azar glanced between the door and the three miscreants standing at the base of the tower. From where he was, he could not hear what was being said, though he imagined there was some confusion happening. _What was it exactly the stickie was searching for?_

After a moment's dilemma, Larn and the stickie moved around to the end of the data block, still within Azar's line of sight, and now in earshot. Even the six-foot-plus stickie was hard-pressed to reach up and physically pry the data cards out of their slots. She wasn't going to hoist him up on her shoulders, was she? Laughing at that, Azar watched as an alternate solution was devised. A resident servo-skull, under Lusia's control, was directed around the tower to where the package was located. Extracting the data storage tape from the slot, the skull flew down to the stickie, who took the tape from its clutches, brushing the skull away.

"How you gonna decrypt it?" Azar heard Larn ask.

"That will not be necessary." The stickie's eyes were scrutinising the blank polymer, her voice a taut whisper.

"What d'you mean?" Larn frowned. "This what you wanted, isn't it? Isn't it?" Turning to Azar, he shot him a nonplussed look.

 _What the hell's going on?_ Azar flung a hand up, still clueless as to what was happening.

" _Hurry up_ ," he mouthed. " _What's the holdup?_ "

Looking on in bewilderment, Azar blanched when the stickie, turning the tape over in her hands, dropped it at her feet. Dumbfounded, Azar swore.

"Wait, that's your life. That can tell you—" Larn, gobsmacked, stepped back in alarm as the stickie rammed the butt of her autogun down upon the fragile lense in the centre of the disk, smashing it and exposing the internals, crushing everything inside the casing.

"—Who your mother is."

Scooping up the fragments, the stickie made to throw away.

"Stop. Stop!" Larn grabbed her wrist. "What's wrong with you?"

"I want to—" Snarling, the stickie pried off Larn's hand, tossing the disk's fragments into the abyss. It was her turn to take Larn by the arm. "I want to – listen. Listen to me!"

Swallowing, Larn met the stickie's eye.

"I want to move on," she said, a desperate, almost pleading look in her eye. "Let me shut the book. Help me move on, I beg."

" _Fucking hell_ ," Azar muttered, slipping down behind the balustrade. He did not like what he was hearing. _So, this was all a big waste of time then?_

"Right, Lusia, pack up. We're off out of here, most ricky-tick!" Larn snapped.

"I hoped you would underst—" The stickie was cut off, and made a noise akin to a wild animal choking, as if on its last legs.

Picking himself up, Azar turned to see a guardsman, clad in full carapace armour, hanging upside down above Izuru, a length of cord wrapped tightly around her neck. Lowered swiftly on a wire, the black-clad soldier was then jerked back upwards.

"IZURU!" Larn bawled, unable to catch her before she was carried upwards by the neck.

"Oh, shit." Azar grabbed for his Lecta. "Contact!"

Bringing his Kazalak up to his shoulder, Larn tried fruitlessly to acquire the surprise assailant. "I don't have a shot!" He screamed, his voice unnaturally high-pitched. "Shoot him, Azar!"

His Lecta rising with the stickie's abductor, Azar's trigger-finger tightened. "Nah, shit," he spat.

Lips drawing back from grinding teeth, the stickie drew her knife, thrusting upwards, pumping her arm up and down as her blade searched for flesh to embed itself in, expelling foul curses in her xenos tongue. Finding a chink in the guardsman's armour, the stickie sunk her knife in, twisting the handle, and working it deeper. Azar heard a garbled scream and watched as the guardsman let her go. Xenos or not, Azar's blood ran cold as the stickie fell back towards the platform like a stone. Landing hard, the stickie's face contorted in pain after the brief second of shock passed.

"Azar, cover!" Larn rushed to the stickie and began to drag her back around the corner, to where Lusia was. "Izuru, you okay?"

Having no idea where the ambush had come from, Azar fired blindly upwards, his ears boxed by the roar of his Lecta.

"Azar, get down from there!"

Catching a glimpse of Lusia discharging her plasma pistol upwards, Azar fled his perch.

"Ankle's sprained," the stickie gasped, now on her feet and leaning against the base of the data tower.

"Can you walk on it?"

"Walk? I can run!" she said, pushing herself away from the tower. "Priestess, behind me!"

Larn, his Kazalak raised, waited for Azar to consolidate on his position. "Okay, we go together. Give 'em a show. Just don't stop firing once we're out of cover. And don't show them your back."

Swearing heartily, Azar checked his open chamber for brass.

"That's it, son. Get it all out." Larn laughed. "Okay, we go on three. Sniper, bring the package with you once we're in position by the door. I'll signal you to run. Azar, we go on three."

"What, one-two-three then go? Or, one-two then go on three?"

"Just-just go when I say," Larn growled. "Okay, three!"

Shoulder-to-shoulder with Larn, Azar doubled back along the walkway towards the open door, loosing wild bursts from the hip in all directions, in contrast to Larn, who did the best he could to aim whilst retreating, snapping off single shots at the array of platforms above them.

"Now!" Larn cried, once he and Azar had reached the exit. "Azar, give cover."

Dropping the fresh magazine he was about to load, Azar scrabbled about on the floor for it, snatching it up and seating it. Propelled by the stickie, Lusia fired her plasma pistol blindly behind her.

"So, this was a waste of time?" Azar shouted across to Larn.

"What?!"

"I said—" Azar froze. Marching up a flight of wide stairs in the adjacent corridor were many more of the carapace-clad troopers. Fully decked out in black armour, full-face helms, and wielding hot-shot lasguns, the eight-man team advanced silently, their movements fluid and coordinated.

"Contact, my right!" Azar screamed.

Pivoting, Larn leant out from the support he was kneeling behind and worked his trigger, sending shots down at the troopers. Each impact caused a tiny explosion, making Azar briefly ponder what Larn was firing through his rifle.

"You, get her out of here!" the stickie shouted at Azar. "Pull her back."

"Lusia, come on." Azar took over from the stickie, darting over to the techpriestess, pulling her away from the firefight.

"Unhand me, damn you!" Lusia stubbornly fired a bolt of plasma in the trooper's direction, melting a support beam the enemy was using for cover.

Slipping in behind Larn's shoulder, the stickie unhooked a grenade, tearing at the tape with her teeth and twisting the pin free with thumb and forefinger. "Grenade!"

Quickly priming a second, Larn nodded at the stickie then bowled his smoking frag down the corridor, along with hers. Two sharp crumps, magnified a hundred-fold, rolled up the corridor, assaulting Azar's unprotected ears; the shockwave punching him in the heart.

"James, move!"

Making the distance between the stickie and Azar, Larn slammed his shoulder against the opposite wall, and emptied the last few rounds in his magazine in the trooper's direction. Hoping the grenades had stalled them, Azar pushed at Lusia to run when the enemy appeared through the smoke, not in the least bit deterred by the blasts. "Run, Lusia! James, let's go."

"Izuru!" Larn's empty Kazalak fell sharply against his body. Drawing his Volg, he fired several useless shots. "Azar, gimme the Whupper. Get Lusia out."

"Here." Azar tossed the Grapo back to Larn, who fumbled with the launcher, trying to holster his Volg before he took aim. When he, at last, managed to tuck his pistol away, Larn placed a 40-millimetre round squarely in the trooper's midst, knocking several off their feet, but having little effect otherwise.

"Izuru, now!"

In the second and a half the enemy was suppressed, the stickie bounded over, reaching Larn, clapping him on the shoulder. "With you. Break contact."

Once again under Lusia's guidance, Azar found the turbolifts and thrust the protesting techpriestess inside.

"Being manhandled by you—" she exclaimed.

"Shuddup!" Azar spotted a second team of carapace troopers, appearing without warning from a side-passage, and poured fire in their direction. Scattering, the troopers took cover behind the supports, returning fire immediately, driving Azar inside the lift. Hauling him back by the scruff of the neck, Lusia leant outwards, delivering a shot from her plasma pistol, catching a trooper square in the faceplate. Not even carapace was enough to protect from the super-heated gas projectile which melted the armour's outer layer with ease. Killed instantly, the trooper was shoved back, his place taken by another.

"Reload." Lusia ejected the steaming hydrogen flask. "Damn the prayers," she spat, "I will take a chance."

About to thrust his Lecta out to blind-fire, Azar leant back when whiz-cracks of rounds flew past the open door. A dull slap, and the Grapo spoke, the HE bursting among the troopers, suppressing them for all of a second, until they began to leap-frog in Azar's direction. One team shooting, the other manoeuvring.

"Get in here!" he cried, unable to fire back, for the perilous amount of lasfire was keeping him pinned to cover.

"Worthless defilers." Lusia shunted Azar aside, sending two quick shots, both near-misses, at the troopers. "You two, to me."

Assisted by the devastating power of Lusia's sidearm, Larn and the stickie threw themselves from where they had taken cover, firing snap-shots as they ran headlong in to the lift. "Go!"

Sealing the lift, Lusia punched the control panel. At once, Azar objected. "Wait, we're going back down, aren't we?" The upwards motion of the lift was unmistakable. "Meet up with Cyrano and that…"

Coldly checking her magazine, the stickie said nothing, refusing to look at either Azar or Lusia.

"Nah, pal, we're heading up then across to the other tower. Lusia needs to do something for the Archmagos," Larn panted. Removing his own magazine, he tested the weight before rocking it back in. "Thing I'm thinking about… who the hell were those blokes?"

"Scions." Lusia glowered. "Special tasks' operatives."

"Them?" Larn turned pale. "Shit. Bet your life they're answering to Him."

"Who?" Azar did not understand who Larn was talking about. "Who's Them? And who's Him?"

"Proper hard bastards…" Larn touched the stickie's collar, tugging it down to get a look at the angry red line around her neck. "How d'you feel?"

"To where are we bound, priestess?" The stickie shrugged her shoulder, moving away from Larn.

"Floor seventy-one. It is but a short walk to the connecting bridge. My only advice is to not look down."

"Ankle?" Larn made to bend down and assess the damage to the stickie's ankle.

"No!"

"James, leave it. We're alright." Azar glared. "Bloody miracle we got out of that ambush."

"Cyrano!" The stickie's hand was at her ear. "Cyrano, respond?"

Having forgotten where Cyrano and his group were heading, Azar listened, round-eyed, and waited for the stickie to relay the new developments to him and the other two.

"Understood. We are on fast approach to the crossing point, and will be on Tleilax within ten minutes. Our friend has still to complete her task. Can you hold your ground?" A pause. "Affirmative. Khaine watch over you, dearest friend."

"What happened?" Larn asked. "Izuru?"

Shifting her weight from her bad ankle, the stickie said, "Cyrano's group were spotted in the hangar by a unit of scions led by a man in grey. The scions fired in to the group without discrimination. Four of the Cadians went down, another few were wounded in the initial exchange. Cyrano and the Highlanders are unscathed."

"What about the shuttle?"

Wiping a hand across her forehead, the stickie squinted. "They cannot access the pen in which the shuttle is berthed unless they have…"

"Lusia." Larn glanced at Lusia sombrely. "Well, they've got to hold out. That's our exit."

"They are very aware of how critical their side of the mission is, James. I have faith in them."

"Those scions are bloody lethal though." Larn tutted. "Was it just the one eight-man team back there, or two?"

"Just the one, I'd hazard."

"I accounted for one killed," said Lusia.

"I think I wasted one with the Grapo. Couldn't confirm it though." Snapping his fingers, Larn gave the stickie a worried look. "The man in grey…"

Shaking her head, the stickie's hand tightened around the pommel of her AdMech sword. "No…"

"You think it's him?"

"He's here," she whispered, loosening the sword in its sheathe.

Four pairs of eyes, two human, one xenos, and one mechanical, watched the dial in the ceiling slowly edge up to LXXI.

* * *

Holding back from committing himself to the firefight, Osvat Radu Zeleska clapped a hand over one ear when a fourth explosion sounded from around the corner, right in the middle of the assault team. First a pair of grenades then two 40-millimetre HE rounds. _Seems the AdMech spared no expense in arming the traitors_ , Zeleska remarked dryly, as a casualty was dragged out of the line of fire, and around to where he was standing. The scion's melted faceplate bore signs of plasma damage. _The AdMech bitch and her plasma pistol, no doubt_.

"My lord." Argus Degrelle's voice came through loudly in Zeleska's ear.

Retreating from the noise, Zeleska replied. "Argus, tell me you have the traitors in your grasp."

"Within our sights, my lord. They entered the hangar at the base of Tleilax. We opened fire but there were Cadians amongst them. They are well-armed and dangerous."

"They are traitors to the imperium, Argus. Eliminate all personnel inside the hangar."

"Does that include the personnel inside Hangar Control, my lord?"

"Did you lock down the hangar or not? Tell me, Argus!"

"The traitors are blocking our way to Hangar Control, my lord. Two of my team are down. We require immediate reinforcement."

 _The best combat troops in the imperium and they are unable to suppress and eliminate a few traitorous off-worlders!_ Zeleska fumed. "Recall Lenz and his team from the Korat airstrip. Have their gunship deliver them to the hangar directly. Directly!"

"My lord!"

"Hold your ground in the meantime. Keep the traitors suppressed."

"Yes, my lord."

The exchange of gunfire had died away, leaving silence in its wake. "Report!" Zeleska barked to the scions.

"My lord, the traitors escaped via the turbolifts."

"Then pursue! Pursue!" Zeleska waved his arms impatiently, striding ahead of the scions towards the turbolifts. "Six men, follow the traitors up and box them in. Specialist, with me, now!"

Having been sent to the rear of the formation, after the botched snatch operation, the specialist now fell in beside Zeleska, as his comrades piled in to the turbolifts.

"Found the xenos a handful, did you?" Zeleska said mockingly.

"She struggled like a Bruul Parasite burrowing into a brain, my lord." The specialist replied, rubbing the gap between his breastplate and shoulder-guard where the xenos knife had plunged. "It was but a scratch. I apologise for my failure."

"Irrelevant." Zeleska led the specialist to the vault door leading in to the archives. "Open it up."

Slicing through the temporary seal the techpriestess had left, the specialist had the door open in moments. "My lord." He stepped back, awaiting Zeleska's order.

"Find out what the xenos stole from this vault. Be swift. My quarry flees." Zeleska swept into the archives, the hem of his cape dragging at the gaps in the balustrade. "What drew you so far away from your pathetic little friends?" Zeleska said to himself, walking around the base of the data tower. On his second circuit he felt a slight crunching beneath his bootheel near the north-west corner.

 _Odd._ He bent down and ran his gloved hand through tiny fragments that were scattered around the floor. _You came not to steal…_

"My lord." The specialist called. "Recent activity shows that a sub-branch of the archives was recently accessed. Codename _Aphelion_."

"What does that mean? What is Aphelion?"

"A codeword for a classified project. I am bypassing firewalls the techpriestess left."

"Make haste!" Zeleska snapped, slapping his hand on his holstered bolt pistol. Time was short. This interest the xenos had in Aphelion irked Zeleska, having no idea what it was himself. And if he had no clue, then it must have been something very secret indeed, possibly above his clearance level. Vermilion was the highest he knew of.

"Amaranth-level clearance, my lord."

"Step back." Zeleska held the ring he wore on his forefinger up to the screen. He was cleared for Amaranth, and also cleared for the level above it: Zaffre. _It must not be of such significance then_ , he thought, _else I would not have access to it_.

"The techpriestess purged the file's contents after transferring it to disposable storage, my lord. Only the name remains: Genus."

That told Zeleska nothing. With his patience wearing out, he ordered the specialist to cease his delving and accompany him to where the fragments littered the ground.

"The hard copy of the evidence was destroyed after it was retrieved, Specialist. Now, only the xenos and the techpriestess know the full details."

"Yes, my lord."

 _No sense in leaving a loose end dangling like this_ , Zeleska thought. Nodding at the rubbish at his feet, he said, "recover the fragments."

"My lord." The specialist knelt, swept the bits of the data drive in to a gauntlet, and stood up, presenting Zeleska with them.

"All of them."

"My lord?"

" _All_ of them." Zeleska's eyes strayed over the edge of the balustrade.

The green eyeholes in the specialist's helmet, opaque, stared at Zeleska.

 _Let us see how great a bastard-son of the Schola Progenium values his pathetic little life._

"I command you to locate the rest of the data drive, scion," he said quietly.

"Yes, my lord." The moment's hesitation passing, the specialist stepped back smartly, about-faced, and climbed up onto the balustrade.

 _A clever man would have gone for his weapon_. Zeleska gave the scion a passing glance as he stepped off the edge, dropping in to darkness without a sound. _But, I do not employ clever men, only beasts that follow my every word. For my word is the word of the Emperor's._

Adjusting his collar, Zeleska walked nonchalantly out of the vault, sealing the door behind him. _Throne, I'm famished_ , he said to himself, contemplating how he would eat that evening, once he was cruising out of the system. Dinner would be for two. Three, maybe four courses. With considerable portions of Sacra to sweeten the evening. _Later, later, dear fellow_. Zeleska smiled smugly, turning his thoughts to the continuing pursuit; letting the thrill of the chase enliven his spirits.


	48. Chapter 47

**The Citadel, 15:41**

Privately disagreeing with splitting the group in to two, Cyrano, none the less, led his party in the opposite direction to James' and Izuru's. The grey, and uniformly bland interior, marked in many places by plaques declaring that it was a no-smoking area, a no-talking area, or a point of no-entry, where failure to comply would lead to immediate imprisonment, dampened Cyrano's spirits. Allowing no other to overtake him, Cyrano slung his M-36 over his shoulder, ordering the Highlanders, who were running rear security, to sling their own personal weapons. "You too, Cadians," he said to the service troops, the four readily complying; having absolutely no stomach to be dragged in to a shootout with their own people.

It would be a manoeuvre carried out with subtlety and guile, and there would be no more Cadian deaths if Cyrano could avoid it; the fiasco in the gatehouse control room he had found quietly nauseating. It could be forgiven for the service troops turning their back on the intruders, now that the ringleader and his xenos enforcer had departed. True, Cyrano had believed Izuru would conduct the takeover with restraint rather than unbridled aggression, the sight of the dead Cadians stunning him. Those men were their allies, and by assisting in hostage-taking, Cyrano was committing treason; a hanging matter. Gunnel, Arken, Mrenk, and Kasabo, it seemed, were too overawed by the xenos's ruthlessness to even think of mounting an insurrection against her. Cyrano further suspected that any sign of dispute from the Cadians would have led to James stepping back to let Izuru knock heads together, or worse. To his great relief, this was now averted, though it was not to say that Cyrano was all for dividing their numbers, where there was safety after all. Having Izuru nearby was a tremendous boost to the group's combat effectiveness, as well as Cyrano's morale. Privately, Cyrano was overjoyed that James and Izuru were now together, however peculiar their coupling was. A stronger follower of the Imperial Faith would have immediately denounced the young man, without any pause for thought. Cyrano himself, formerly a devout believer, had found his faith shaken over the years he had spent on the frontlines of various worlds. There was far greater value in keeping his friends and allies close to his heart than the Emperor, who, to all, was nothing more than a distant father-figure, forever unreachable.

The group's progress through the silent halls was constantly disturbed by the whimpers of the poor Cadian James had zipped, a young woman wearing the black beret of the Imperial Logistics Corps, who was cradling her mutilated arm in a sling one of her companions had hastily made for her. The half dozen Cadians were all ILC. As with the quivering analyst, they were quite cowed by the shock of being taken hostage, but were now unsure if they were still prisoners. All seven seemed quite willing to be led away from the danger, as it happened. Any interaction between the Cadians Cyrano was quite happy to let happen.

"Um, excuse me…" A Cadian behind Cyrano spoke.

Signalling a halt, Cyrano nodded at a Cadian, also wearing a black logistics beret. "Speak."

"My colleague, Eva…"

"I can only apologise for my friend's conduct. I assure you, he did not do it out of spite. We simply wanted passage through your facilities." Cyrano rested a hand on his heart. "You ask about medical supplies. I must further apologise, for we have none. You would know where they were kept?"

"Yes. Yes, indeed…"

"Cyrano. I am Sotnik – lieutenant. The gentlemen in the bonnets are Lorne and Borens. We will not hurt you if you assist us in our journey to the hangar in Tleilax Tower."

"Shoshta. If you let me take Eva to the medicae wing, I will show you the way to the hangar."

A clatter of running feet behind Cyrano had Shoshta's eyes darting over his shoulder in fright.

"Don't look at them, look at me," Cyrano said calmly. "We will help you."

Cyrano moved not an inch as a ten-man squad of Interior Guard clattered past him. It was only when the sergeant in command heard Eva's grunts of pain, did he call a halt.

"What in the name of the Emperor happened to you, Private?"

"Sergeant?" Cyrano called, beckoning to the noncom.

"And who are you?" the sergeant brought his Kantrael up, half-aiming it at Cyrano. "Off-worlder."

Puffing out his chest, Cyrano placed his hands on his hips and stepped smartly over to the NCO. "Off-worlder, sir, to you, Sergeant."

The Interior Guard noncom did not budge. "I see no badges of rank on your attire, off-worlder." Turning to the Highlanders, he flicked his muzzle at them. "And who are they? Why do wastrels like them tread these halls?"

"No. Address the officer present, or be on your way, Sarn't. Sotnik Cyrano Alma Semirechye. Atreides Cavalry. You have bigger problems to deal with currently, Sarn't. You have a breach in the defensive perimeter, and I have wounded personnel here with me."

The blank faceplate of the Interior Guardsman shifted to Shoshta. "Private of logistics, who is this interloper?"

Positively surprised, Cyrano kept his face impassive as Shoshta lied compellingly. "Sergeant, the hated enemy employed bunker-busting charges upon the Venessium Gates. Rocket-propelled grenades were fired at the command complex, where I and my colleagues were stationed—"

"You abandoned your post."

"Our officer was killed. We have wounded. I seek new orders from any officers that are nearby."

"What of Orange callsigns?"

"Currently in contact with the enemy right now, Sergeant."

Cyrano stepped in. "Now, Sarn't, you have two choices. Arrest us or take your fireteams to assist your brothers-in-arms, who are doing their sacred duty to the Emperor. Defending territory _you_ own. Make it quick, Sarn't. The enemy's stench grows strong."

It was not quite the outcome Cyrano had hoped for, which was for the Interior Guard to rush off to deal with the Zeke problem, leaving the group alone to continue up to the medicae wing unhindered. Somewhat shrewdly, the Interior Guard sergeant halved his force, ordering a five-man fireteam, commanded by a corporal, to escort Cyrano, the Highlanders, and the Cadians up to the medicae wing. This, as it turned out, was something of a benefit to Cyrano, who realised that he now had his very own Interior Guard escort.

 _Subtlety and guile_ , the cavalryman smiled to himself as he walked steadily behind the five guardsmen. " _Well done_ ," he whispered to Shoshta. " _Had me convinced_."

" _Didn't want to be dragged back there and ordered to fight_ ," Shoshta replied. _"As your fellow said, it is every man for himself…"_

" _Something else. Who is your commanding officer?"_

" _Our unit reports to Lieutenant Colonel Darraq. Why?"_

" _She?"_

"… _Yes."_

" _Perfect."_ A plan was forming in Cyrano's head. All of it teetered on whether or not the Interior Guard knew this Darraq by her voice.

" _Why?_ "

To Shoshta's question,Cyrano simply smiled. The small measure of satisfaction he felt was marred however by the sight of row upon row of bodybags that quickly took up each and every inch of space in the Citadel's hallways and corridors. Believing himself fully acclimatised to the sight of death, Cyrano felt saddened at the sight of so many Cadian dead. That they would likely be left behind after the last of the Citadel's staff pulled out filled Cyrano's heart with lead. Catching sight of a bodybag that was partly unzipped, Cyrano was about to step over to it, when Shoshta put a hand on his shoulder.

"They're our people," Shoshta said quietly.

"Guardsmen." Cyrano called to the Interior Guard. "A moment."

Kneeling over the bodybag, Shoshta grasped the zip and carefully pulled it upwards, sealing the body inside the canvas. Saying nothing, Shoshta bowed his head in silent prayer. Quickly removing his battered fur hat, Cyrano shot Lorne and Borens a look. Nudging Lorne, Borens took off his bonnet, his friend following suit.

"Have they been seen by a chaplain, Corporal?" Shoshta asked the Interior Guard corporal.

"I do not know, Private. The halls are now home to many of our kin."

 _Poor Cadians._ Cyrano set his cap on his head and waited for Shoshta to re-join them. To lose so many of their brothers and sisters was terrible. But to lose their home planet, after eons of standing firm in the face of Chaos. That was soul-crushing. _How lucky we are to be able to leave without a care for Cadia_ , thought Cyrano, nodding respectfully at Shoshta when the Cadian fell in behind him.

" _Cyrano, status_." Izuru's voice in his ear.

"We have made a slight deviation to the medical wing. A Cadian in our company requires immediate treatment. We have a cadre of Interior Guard escorting us. Fear not, we are not prisoners. As soon as Eva is seen to, we will continue on to the hangar."

A pause, then, "Understood."

Several floors above the bodybag-filled halls, the surroundings became stark white, with a shiny, reflective floor. A clean, surgical smell tickled Cyrano's nostrils. Sniffing in the crisp air, he was barged in to as Shoshta and his companions rushed Eva through a doorway to his right, leading to an ICU.

"Is there a doctor in there?" Gunnel, leading his three friends past the Interior Guard, stopped by a window to watch as Eva was helped up on to an operating table.

"Are we… what we doin, big man?" Lorne, watching the Interior Guard warily, adjusted the sling of his stubber, which was cutting in to his shoulder. Both he and Borens were leaning against the wall near the head of the stairs, neither wanting to get too close to either the ILC or Interior Guard.

"Just, keep it calm and quiet for now, boys." Cyrano motioned for the Highlanders to stand down, glancing at the Interior Guard to check they hadn't overheard. "Be on our way soon."

With the IG's attention on Eva, who was refusing to lie down, choosing to sit up instead, the five faceless guardsmen stood in single file, motionless, with their backs to the wall, behind Gunnel, Arken, Mrenk, and Kasabo. Looking over Mrenk and Arken's shoulders, Cyrano watched as Shoshta and the other four ILC men rootled through overhead cupboards and dispensers around the infirmary, every now and again, one of them comforting Eva, who was hunched over her arm, a deathly pallor in her face. At last, a laser cutter, a tool that looked like a repurposed mining instrument, was found. Unfamiliar with Cadian equipment, Cyrano was surprised seeing such a crude-looking device. It had a lever grip and what appeared to be serrations along a blade fitted on the opposite side to where the laser would habit. Firing the cutter up, Shoshta turned it around in his hand and eyed the bright white beam, which was about the same diameter as his forefinger. Gentle hands, bearing medical scissors, sliced the sling holding Eva's arm, allowing Shoshta to position the laser. Eva's shoulders were gripped from behind by two of her companions, as were her feet. Laying a hand upon her shoulder, Shoshta said something. _This will hurt_ , Cyrano guessed.

"Throne, they're not…" Mrenk, looking peaky, put his hand against the glass. The sight of the warming laser made him turn away. "I can't look."

"Won't be keeping that one," Gunnel muttered, "Not after your boy shot her," he added, leaning backwards to stare coldly at Cyrano.

"I'm sorry – what?" The Interior Guard corporal, catching whiff of what Gunnel had blurted, moved away from his fireteam. "Explain—"

An audible scream – Eva – made Cyrano jump and clap a hand over his trembling heart. Everybody turned and, with the exception of Mrenk and the Highlanders, watched as the crying Eva had her arm amputated. Slicing through the thin strands of flesh, with all the ease of a hot knife through butter, Shoshta worked the laser cutter, cauterising any further bleeding. Thankfully, Eva fainted mid-way through the amputation. Thank the Emperor for that. It was one thing to bear witness to a crude medical procedure, another to see and hear a woman in distress. It dug nails in to Cyrano's gut. It could very well have been Ilona in there, forced to put on a uniform, whether she wanted to or not, and fight a war she couldn't care less about. Now, this poor young woman was crippled, unless of course she could afford a prosthetic. But on an OR's wage that would be impossible.

 _Ilona. Let me gaze in to your eyes once more. Let me know there is still innocence in this blighted galaxy._ Cyrano knew not what the tipping point was, or why it came to him then. But, he realised he wanted to have a child with Ilona. Bring a new life in to being after he had seen so many lives lost around him. _Will you have me, dearest?_ Cyrano wondered, allowing himself one more second's musing, before curtly addressing the Interior Guard corporal.

"Yes, Corporal. You were saying? Make it swift. We are bound for the evacuation points. Your sergeant expects you."

Even with the respirator mask in place, and the polarised lenses obscuring his eyes, the Cadian noncom appeared confused, as if he had lost his train of thought after watching the surgery. "Our – our sergeant, yes. I – I require you all – with the exception of the wounded individual – to make for the Venessium Gates, and join the defences there."

"I beg your pardon, Corporal," Cyrano said coldly.

"Everybody is going back to the Venessium Gates. You are not permitted to adjourn to the evacuation points." The corporal motioned his men to form a cordon around the Cadians.

"Pardon me." Cyrano, turning away from the stubborn corporal, made a show of contacting Izuru. "I have Lieutenant Colonel Darraq here, Corporal. I'd advise you not waste her time. The colonel of logistics is very busy."

"Let me talk to her." The corporal held out a hand for the comm-bead.

"Colonel, I'm passing you over to an Interior Guard NCO," Cyrano said.

"Roger," Izuru replied.

"Corporal." Cyrano presented the Cadian with the bead, after quickly wiping it clean.

"This is Corporal Zyl Renda. Interior Guard Detachment Two-Four Beta. Am I speaking to Colonel Darraq?"

In little more than a few harshly-worded sentences, Izuru – playing the part perfectly – shut the Interior Guard corporal down. Cyrano wished he could have heard the exchange from her end. _What a wonderful being_ , he thought smugly.

"Beg pardon. We weren't aware your colonel was still in the Citadel's grounds." The corporal began to whisk his men away, passing the Highlanders without comment.

"No worry. Good luck to you, Corporal." Cyrano waved them off, letting out a sigh of relief when the five guardsmen had disappeared.

"Dunno how ya pulled that one off, mate." Lorne chortled, unslinging his Molota. "Now, we do it our way, uh?"

"Pull the drumsticks out ya fuckin' ears, ya dobber," Borens said. "Ain't lookin' to waste any more Cadians. There some real slimy cunts 'round 'ere someplace. And they ain't Guard. Save our rounds for 'em, huh?"

 _Talking sense_ , Cyrano remarked, nodding at the Highlanders to take point. " _No shooting_ ," he mouthed.

Giving Cyrano a manic grin, Lorne hopped down the stairs, the nonplussed Borens following. Their departure was swiftly followed by Shoshta and the four Cadians leaving the infirmary. The unconscious Eva was being carried by one of them, her right arm thickly bound in bandages.

"Is she alright?" Mrenk, wringing his hands in distress, asked, trying to get a look at Eva's face.

"Alright. Leave it with them, my friend." Cyrano took Mrenk by the arm and stopped him from interfering with Shoshta's people. "We are for Tleilax now, Cadians. Come."

Under Shoshta's guidance, Cyrano, the Highlanders, and the other Cadians traversed the seedy expanses of the Citadel's complex, passing through cathedral-like places of worship, mustering grounds, training and administration facilities, all near-empty of their contents, and without a single soul to speak of. Nobody spoke. Eva was still out. _Let her awaken peacefully, and in the arms of a brother,_ thought Cyrano. Though excited at the prospect of escaping Cadia, the burden of leadership was beginning to stretch the cavalryman's nerves. It was not a duty he relished, and would hate himself if anything were to happen to either the Highlanders, James, Izuru, Azar, Lusia, or any of the Cadians. _Compassionate fool_ , a small voice sneered at him. _Dispense with such a weakness, for it will lay your body open, as a butcher's carving knife does a beast._

 _And how will I face Ilona if there is nothing but coldness in my heart? How can I love her again, if these hands of mine are versed only in the cold art of killing, not love? Such corruption would scour my soul with such vigour, that it would be as if I placed my own muzzle in my mouth and let the Emperor decide what he would do with me. Love can redeem a being._

* * *

 **IMT _Ionia_ , 15:37**

Fully convinced the Marauder was lining up to expend her load on his head, Ral, as helpless as every other man and woman clinging to the back of _Ionia_ , cowered. Only hearing the torrid exchange of gunfire between the bomber's tail gunner and the Valkyrie, Ral kept his eyes closed, refusing to look upon his own death. It took Peter, shaking his arm, to make Ral open his eyes. Just why Peter – mute, traumatised, young Peter – had grabbed Ral became apparent when the four-engined giant, dirty grey smoke trailing from its engines, veered away from the stricken ship; roaring off eastwards. Astonished that the lone Valkyrie had even made a dent in the Marauder's armour, Ral gaped, struck dumb along with everyone else. During the moments following the little ship's victory over the brute, there was an eerie hush, but the silence was broken by clapping, cheering, and shouting.

"Look at that. He's scarpering!" Joe laughed. "Aimo, it's gonna be alright."

"Uh?" Grinning beneath his bandages, Aimo embraced Joe happily. "Aw, bloody good, that."

"So, is he gonna fetch help?" Tom, shielding his eyes, waved up at the approaching Valkyrie. "Hey, why don't he land?"

"Icing on the cake that." Aimo waved in the direction of the Valkyrie. "C'mon, you bastard, let's have it!"

"Try and get you aboard first, Aimo." Joe took Aimo by the shoulders, on the verge of moving him if the Valkyrie did try and take on men. "They'll fly you back to Kraf and find you another ship."

"Not on your life, Joe. We'll all go together."

"Aimo, don't be daft. You can't see." Tom implored.

Watching the Valkyrie closely, Ral realised the pilot was making no attempt to lose airspeed, repeatedly circling the wreck instead. Very quickly, the elation died down, readily replaced by cries of outrage and shrill pleas for pickup. Over and over again, it was asked why the pilot, who had gone through thick and thin to protect the swamped _Ionia_ , did not use his vector thrusters and hover close enough to accept passengers. Completing his third circuit, the pilot banked away, pointing his ship in the direction of the shoreline and waggling his wings. _This way_. Ral got to his feet and tried to make out the edge of the lake. Through the murky smoke though this was impossible.

"Yeah, I see. He's pointing us towards the shore." Joe followed Ral's eyes. "Can't quite see it. Maybe we swim for it."

"What, right in to Zeke's hands?" Ral snarled, kicking his feet. "I'm not going in the fucking bag!"

Shuddering underneath them, _Ionia_ groaned.

"Zeke or that." Joe nodded at the patches of burning fuel dotted around _Ionia_. "Bad or worse, I'm afraid. Pick."

"Oi, maybe he radioed for help?" Tom, nervously tugging at Ral's trouserleg to get him to sit down, suggested. "Maybe they'll send someone?"

"Yeah, think positively, Tom, there's a good lad," Aimo said, refusing to let his spirits fall. "We've got through everything else before. We'll get through this, huh?"

A brisk crack startled Ral. A naval officer had fired a sidearm in to the air, in doing grabbing the survivor's attention. "Listen to me, Guardsmen!" he shouted. "Listen to my instructions!"

"Oi, you heard the man, eyes and ears," Aimo said.

"That's you out then." Tom sniggered.

With great patience, having to repeat himself on countless occasions to boot, the officer explained the correct method of jumping from a great height in to the water, which was to bend the legs and tug the life-preserver down sharply as one fell. The tugging was to lessen the force of the life-preserver jerking the head upwards as the jumper hit the water, the impact, more often than not, breaking the neck outright. Among the five, this method only applied to Peter and Aimo.

"You got that, son?" Joe asked, making sure Peter had heard the officer clearly.

Nodding, Peter tugged the bottom edges of his life preserver down.

"What about us then?" Ral looked at Tom. Neither he, Tom, nor Joe had any means of staying afloat.

"Just bend your legs, why don't you?"

"Might want lose your ceramite. That, or keep it clamped down upon your head. Don't want any chinstraps garrotting you," Aimo said.

"Aw, that and everything else I own," Ral muttered. As with everybody else, anything that was likely to weigh him down: belt kit, body armour, rifle, lasgun, or cover, had been dumped, either back at the evacuation point, or inside the ship.

"Can feel her dropping." Aimo spread his hands upon the hull. "Kinda reminds of a giant plughole."

"Yeah, we don't want to leave it till the last second, boys. If we try and step off just as she goes under, we'll be dragged down too." Joe edged to his feet and peered over the side. "Best to get as far away from _Ionia_ as possible." Reaching inside his jacket, Joe felt for his waterproof bag. Aggrieved at having to leave his cameras behind, Joe had made the best of it by taking his film rolls and stowing them with his notes, sealing them inside the plastic. They were all he possessed.

"Smartly now!" the ship's one remaining officer gestured with his hands rather than his sidearm. Evidently it was down to individual choice whether he or she would take the plunge sooner rather than later. Few were making the jump, leaving the many thousands still clinging to the hull to wait for the ship to sink lower, giving them an easier time disembarking.

"Come on, Peter. Jump with me." Joe pulled Peter to the edge with him. "Remember what the officer said?"

Bobbing his head, Peter took hold of his life preserver and waited.

"Okay, one, two, three!" Joe leapt, taking Peter with him, but letting go mid-fall. Bending his legs, Joe clamped his nose and shut his mouth tight. In free-fall for less than a second, Joe crashed through the surface and plummeted downwards. Shaking his head, he kicked up towards the light, wincing at the crackling flames on a nearby slick.

"Peter?" Joe cast around, frantically treading water, scanning other heads that were nearby. "Aw, Peter. Over here, lad!" He spied the youth, whose head was above the surface, yet lolling like a ragdoll. Swimming over, Joe got ahold of Peter and slapped him around his face. "Shake a leg, there."

Coming around, after the shock set in, Peter blinked, water dribbling down from his wet hair.

"Good boy." Joe helped Peter swim a short distance from the ship, away from the worst of the fires. "Stay here, Peter. I'm going back to help Aimo."

Only Tom and Aimo were present on the surface. Ral, at first glance, appeared to have not jumped.

"No, he jumped with us. I saw him, I swear!" Tom swept the water around him with his free hand. "S'alright, Aimo. Cling to me. I'll be your eyes."

"Tom, Ral!" Aimo shouted.

"Some blokes jumped just after us too. They might've landed on Ral. I dunno…" Straining his neck to keep above the surface, Tom shook Aimo's shoulder. "C'mon, Aimo, you've got hands, you've got legs; use them! You push, I'll steer."

"Right what my missus said!" Aimo burst out laughing.

"Oi, shove off, you two." Joe caught a whiff of the water they were swimming in. "That's fuel in the water. Get away before it catches fire."

Calling out for Ral, Joe was pelted by funnels of water as more men landed around him. A hard slap against the back of his head had him black out momentarily, but quickly came to. Surfacing, coughing and spluttering, Joe struck out after Tom, Aimo, and Peter. _God, I hope Ral's found somebody else to hang on to. Poor fellow doesn't have a life preserver._

Hearing the voices of his friends carried over to him by the wind, Joe found the three waiting. "Right, that way. Swim east. East!"

Helping Aimo with Tom, Joe began to kick ahead. Progress was nothing more than a crawl, but they made it clear of the ship and the spreading oil. All four were drenched in the stuff, and were constantly spitting out the foul-tasting gloop which stuck to hair and skin like glue. Turning to look at the now-distant ship, Joe saw the scene that must have stirred the hearts of so many of those who were lucky enough to have swum away from the wreck. By that time, _Ionia_ was dangerously low in the water, and Joe could not see much of the plates for all the troops that were still sitting there, hoping to calmly step off in to the water. There was one chap standing up in the centre of the crowd, beating out the time while they all sang a jaunty song. When Joe next looked back, the ship had gone, as had all of whom he had seen singing that song. _Throne, those poor souls_ , Joe thought bitterly. _I'm so sorry, Ral_.

* * *

 **Arrakis Tower, Floor 71, 16:01**

At long last, the numerals flicked on to LXXI. A gentle loss in motion was felt, and the lift stopped. Training her Roga on the floor, Izuru prepared to spring out through the opening doors, firing as she moved. On her left, James glanced nervously at her.

"Moving." Izuru raised her Roga, aiming it through the gap, then canting the rifle at a gentle forty-five degrees as she swept the right, aware of James making similar movements as he covered the left.

Much higher in Arrakis, quite near the top, the air was noticeably cooler. A wind was blowing too. _How high must the humans build to satisfy their egos?_ Izuruwondered _,_ stoppingbefore she went too far, reminding herself of her own people's uglier qualities. Strangely amphitheatre-like, the summit of Arrakis was dizzyingly high on one side, while gradually sweeping around in a gentle curve, getting lower and lower until a narrow point – the bridge connecting the two towers – extended over the towering drop. The layout was even stepped like an arena – reminding Izuru of where Druchii would congregate to place wagers on their champions, and see them fight in single combat. A tiered plaza, Izuru would have described it as. Utilitarian and devoid of absolutely any comfort or adornment. _I do not believe organic beings were meant to ascend to such heights_ , she remarked dryly. _How easily we did so. Yet, it was with startling ease we fell._

"Shit, they're on to us!" James exclaimed, pulling Lusia away from the lifts. While the lift they had taken was standing immobile, the second was quite the opposite, heading up to their level, fast.

"Fly!" Izuru cried. "You, take the techpriestess over the bridge!"

"Right, come on, Lusia." Azar beckoned. "Going for a tightrope walk."

"Hold." Lusia snapped, producing her cutting torch. "Be away, luddites. You know naught but how to destroy."

"Sorry, Lusia." Azar made a face at James, murmuring something guttural, to which James grunted in amusement.

"James." Izuru glared, signalling him with two raised fingers to keep his eyes open. The odious little human, ugly too, was somewhat of a bad influence upon James. _No tears will be shed for you, when the hounds come to feast._

The buzz and bright blue flame of the torch showered Lusia with sparks as she worked it down the gap, melting the hardened steel together, her mechanical body not bothered in the slightest. When she had finished the first, Lusia started work on the second, despite James's overt reluctance to continue hanging around where the enemy would shortly be.

 _Patience, damn you, James._ Izuru locked eyes with the young man, willing herself to convey the calmness that had her in its controlling embrace. Shrugging, James fidgeted with his beret. _Cocky. Such an attitude I have seen in so many young warriors._ Sighing, Izuru remembered how often they would come and go. Each believing themselves special, and destined to perform heroic feats on the battlefield, weave their stories in with the myths of the gods of old. _Let James not fall as they fell. He is special, a rare find, forever out of place with those around him._

"After you." Lusia blew the last of the sparks from her torch's nozzle and spun around in a bizarre near-pirouette, a manoeuvre a mech should not have been able to so easily pull off, galling Izuru.

"Let us dance." Lusia grabbed James's hand and wrenched him off the step he was sitting on.

"Oi—" James, spooked by Lusia's hyper-active burst of energy, stumbled. Against all Izuru's expectations, it was Azar who took charge of Lusia.

"Meet you 'cross the other side of the bridge," Azar said. With astonishing politeness, he offered to accompany Lusia.

"We danced. Did you see?" Lusia grinned over her shoulder at Izuru.

"Get going!" James hissed, waving the pair away.

"James." Izuru looked down on him coldly from above. "Pick up your rifle. The enemy draws near."

Retrieving his Kazalak, James flinched when Izuru dropped down from the tier above him, landing with only the slightest flex in her knees, her posture otherwise unchanged. "Up!"

Pulling away from the turbolifts doors, Izuru moved steadily backwards, keeping to James's slower pace, making sure they remained level to one another. Bounding backwards over rails and thin walls, Izuru kept her Roga trained upon the enemy's point of entry, her movements smooth and graceful, in firm contrast to James's sluggish and loud manner. _He is so slow,_ Izuru thought, wishing to chide him for it. Lusia's mockery, making to snatch James away, hurt her, even if it was simply done in jest. Nothing would be revealed to any of them though. It was her duty to keep up an air of calm professionalism at times, and never let it drop. Only in private could she open up. And those treasured moments were damnably few. Her ears registering the change in the wind, Izuru felt the back of her vest connect with the handrail, preventing her from falling in to oblivion. "James, fall back then cover my withdrawal."

"It's a withdrawal is it? Thought we was advancing on our objective. Bloody sick o' pulling back every step of the way. Think I might advance in another direction instead."

"Please." Izuru watched James dart out of her field of vision. _Advance in another direction. Really!_

"Well, come on then," came his peculiar accent from somewhere on the bridge.

Confident James was covering her, Izuru fell back to his position, around a quarter of the way along the span, and within the cover of one of the support struts.

"Oi, don't look down, yeah." James said jokingly when Izuru joined him.

"Position yourself on my flank. We will catch the enemy in this chokepoint then enact a stall-and-retreat action. Questions?"

"Lusia didn't mean nothing."

"I care not for Lusia, or that other human."

"Nah, you're mine. That's what you want, innit? Nobody else fights as good as you. I'm happy to be in a contact, knowing you're looking out for me."

Finding his own piece of cover opposite Izuru, James grinned. "Don't hide behind that wall of ice. I've seen behind it. Seen all those little thoughts, desires, and prejudices. It's complicated."

Touching a finger to her lips, Izuru motioned for quiet. It startled her that James now had such a clear insight in to her. _Ignorant, not unintelligent_ , she thought, _still room for refinement though_.

In as comfortable a position as she could find, Izuru laid a spare magazine by her feet, ready to reload once her initial 'contact' magazine was expended. _Expend one magazine then retreat to the second firing position whilst my partner provides cover. Repeat as needed._

Izuru opened her left eye and stared over her optics at the turbolifts, which were just over 100 yards away, crystal clear to her.

"How are your eyes? Can you observe your sector clearly?" James had only basic sights, and might struggle to land precise shots needed to strike the weakpoints in the scion's carapace.

"I'm good for now."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Have a full magazine ready the instant you empty your initial load. Take it out and place it by your feet. It will not do to be fumbling with clasps on pouches. Expend your empty. There is no sense in retrieving it."

"We're s'posed to retain empty mags and powerpacks. Gotta follow the rules, Izuru."

"My rules." Izuru glared. "Heed them."

"Alright, fine." James opened a pouch and laid a full magazine by his feet, playing a 40-millimetre grenade there too. The round-nosed cartridge was a dull brass. A ring of green was painted just behind the warhead, presumably denoting its payload. Izuru wondered whether they were flechette or even KEP. Regular high-explosive would do little against the enemy's tough body armour, unless a direct hit could be scored.

"Tell me something funny, why dontcha?"

Izuru came back instantly. "You drool."

It was more of a complaint than anything, something he noticed. "You bellyaching on me?"

"Is my belly aching?" A stab of alarm made Izuru's stomach contract sharply, before she quickly realised she had jumped to the wrong conclusion. "N-no, I – I strayed…"

"S'alright, just asked you if you was griping, that's all." James tittered. "'Aven't quite the hang of the slang, have you?"

"Wretched farmer."

" _Hnh,_ getting there."

Briefly flickering in James's direction, Izuru's eyes picked out three long ropes that were cast down from a higher floor – one of the fragile-looking communication arrays, whose spires were even higher-reaching than the summit of the tower – to coil at the doors of the turbolifts. Steadying her aim, Izuru saw three scions appear from above, and begin abseiling down. "Contact!" she barked, letting off a round.

"Seen," James said. All silliness gone, James began firing single rounds, imitating Izuru, as both sent shots against the backs of the scions, the vicious cracks pummelling Izuru's unprotected ears. Certain she was landing hits, Izuru's eyes snapped up to the parapet of the comms array. Muzzles were visible. "Eyes up!" she cried, adjusting her aim, just as three more scions opened fire, covering their comrades' descent.

Forced to duck in to cover, Izuru glanced across at James, who gave her a thumbs-up and a nod. "Okay, go!" he shouted.

As one, they rose, returning fire on the trio of scions that now had their boots on the ground and were disconnecting themselves from the ropes, whirling about with their hotshot lasguns held tightly in to their shoulders then diving to cover.

"James!" Izuru slipped down and signalled to him. "You keep their heads down up there. I'll concentrate on the others."

"Ho!"

Turning his Kazalak upon the scions above, James rattled off four quick single shots, walking his fire left-to-right, the airburst rounds striking the scion's cover, hopefully delivering a reminder to them of the deadliness of his unconventional longarm. Suppressed for all too short a period, the scions were soon back at it, their lasguns coming closer and closer to their mark, the beams blowing plate-sized chunks of floor out, the gloopy mess flying everywhere. A shrill hoot from James made Izuru snap out of her combat mindset. Clearing a jam, Izuru saw James was flapping his left arm like a wing.

"Are you hit?" Izuru shrieked.

"Naw, just caught some flecks!" James shouted back, shaking the red-hot gloop from his sleeve, which was smoking. "Aah, bloody hurts!" Grinning, he put his Kazalak down and took up his Grapo. As it gave its loud cough, Izuru tracked the round mid-flight, watching it explode behind the cover the scions were using. _Ineffective_ , she made a chopping motion at her throat. Seeing this, James nodded, yanking the spent casing from the smoking barrel and quickly slotting his second in. Slinging the launcher, James returned to firing his Kazalak, delivering round after round against the scion's cover. Carefully placing her shots where she could see elbows and heads visible, Izuru worked to keep the enemy's heads down. Not one was exposing himself for more than an instant to shoot. The three that were nearer now ramped up their fire, forcing Izuru to lower her rate of fire, as she and James were gradually suppressed. This aided the other scions in their descent, allowing them an unimpeded abseil. As fast as their comrades, the second team were moving and firing right as their boots hit the floor, joining the first three, beginning a leap-frog, with one team constantly firing, the other pressing forwards, and vice-versa.

With bits of the bridge supports flying all around them, and the air filled with gun-smoke and stinking of propellant, Izuru dropped her empty magazine, pressed in a fresh load, and chambered. "On my order, you will retire. Find a firing position, then turn and cover me!"

"Yeah, yeah!" James shouted back. His eyes were half-closed and he had one hand over his ear.

"Do you understand? Do not run all the way. Turn and cover me. D'you understand?" Izuru belted out at the top of her lungs.

Nodding emphatically, James threw away his own empty magazine then rocked his second in. "Got it!" he cried, pulling his charging handle back with two fingers and letting go. For the withdrawal, he set his rifle to automatic.

Taking a breath, Izuru visualised the enemy's placement, working out where and how often she would shoot, before giving James the signal. "Now!"

"Moving!" James thrust himself out in to the open, frantically zig-zagging as lasbeams ignited the air around him. Catching sight of a scion that was leaning just that little bit too far out of cover, Izuru placed her reticule upon the scion, lining up on his left eye-lense, and gently squeezed. Like a hammer through glass, the lense shattered in to a hundred pieces. Blood flew outwards as the scion's head was jerked back, spraying those closest to him with it. The dense .458 cartridge travelled through the eye, the skull, and the brain, the projectile's force bursting out of the back of the scion's head, carrying huge quantities of armaplas, skin, bone, blood, and brain matter outwards in a cone shape.

"Reap the whirlwind," Izuru muttered. Though outwardly cold, she felt an intense, almost sexual gratification that she had ended the life of one of the Inquisitor's thugs through her own skill. _Five more to fall,_ she thought. _Then it will be his turn_.

"Izuru, come on!" James's voice cut through the haze of blood that thumped like a gong in her ears.

The death of another of their brothers not deterring them in the slightest, the scions now folded themselves in to one unit, casting themselves from cover and boldly loosing off shots as they strode to the mouth of the chokepoint, their opaque eye-lenses shining. Pinned, Izuru heard the distinct rattle of James's autogun, and the strain in his shout. Taking her Roga in one hand, Izuru darted towards him, side-slipping left and right then throwing herself on to her belly when she caught up with him, rolling sideways in to cover. Back on her feet, Izuru paid James a glance, no injuries, and returned fire on the scions, who were now pushing ahead; three covering and two advancing, effortlessly switching between firing and manoeuvring roles.

 _No good_ , James gave Izuru an uneasy look right after he expended his magazine. _We're being rolled up here._

 _I know,_ Izuru mouthed for James to run, giving him cover once more. _All we can do is keep the gap open. If they get too close, they will assault and kill us._ Planning to go to her sword, after her rifle, sidearm, and grenades were expended, Izuru, however, did not want James to try and engage the elite guardsmen in hand-to-hand. If everything went south, she wanted him to run.

As James broke contact again, Izuru wiped her smarting eyes, stinging from the dryness in the air. Catching brief moments of silence between the scion's shots, Izuru peered through the thin columns, out at the burning city, hundreds of feet below. While the buzz of aero engines permeated the air, there was little activity above in the Citadel's airspace, all dogfights taking place over or near to the evacuation points. Not hearing the howl of the turbofans until they were very close, Izuru, instead, heard James give a shout for her to move. "Smoke!" he added, tearing the pin from a smoke grenade and rolling it in her direction. Just why he had done this became clear when a gunship slipped in to view around the tower. The grey Valkyrie, bearing white letter I's on its wings and fuselage, rotated, the portside door gun traversing to acquire Izuru.

Spitting out an oath, Izuru disposed of her only smoke grenade, dropping it to cover her retreat from the scions.

"Get outta there. Get out!" James screamed.

Perforating the air, the bolter shells sheared off chunks of the bridge around Izuru, pinning her further. Fragments skimming her legs and arms, Izuru pelted through the blistering hail of lead, focusing on James's voice and his face. Leaning out from between the supports, and almost out over the abyss, James pumped rounds in to the gunship's fuselage and cockpit, the tiny explosions blossoming across the armour, but otherwise doing nothing to drive it off. Pain driving up her legs, Izuru plucked James back from the edge, dragging him with her, ignoring the protests her ankle gave. "Away! Flee!"

Stubbornly sending bursts through the gaps as he ran, James stopped to try with the Grapo.

"No! No!" Izuru knocked the barrel aside, earning her a torrent of profanity-laden slurs she was not keen to remember, having to physically haul James away. "No use."

Pursuing them, the door gunner calmly walked his fire along the bridge, his face obscured behind his polarised visor. A flash of blue, sparking against the pilot's canopy, made the gunner lose his mark. The pilot then swerved the gunship away as bolts of plasma were now striking the armour plate.

"Lusia!" James exclaimed.

Neither the techpriestess nor or the other human had obeyed their orders it seemed, both lighting the gunship up from a position closer to the other tower. The plasma pistol in particular had taken the enemy pilot by surprise, inflicting superficial wounds upon the gunship's nose, and damaging the perspex canopy, enough for him to pull his craft out of range. _How bold of her_ , Izuru thought grudgingly, letting go of James at his protests. _She barks as well as she bites._

A weak voice in her ear – Cyrano – called out to her. "We can't hold the hangar. We're pulling back up the tower. We'll... we'll meet you…"

"Cyrano? Cyrano?"

* * *

"Gunship, cease fire!" Osvat Radu Zeleska screeched. "I want the xenos and her accomplice alive! Alive!"

Gripping the rail the scions had launched themselves over, Zeleska watched, incensed, as the pilot clumsily spun his ship around, giving his starboard door gun a clear shot at where Izuru Numerial was hiding. Furious, Zeleska grasped the rope with his gloved hands and shimmied down to the ground, tilting his sheathed sword out of the way before it hit the floor. "I repeat, cease fire!"

Hastening through the scions' midst, Zeleska ignored his bodyguard's signals to remain behind them. "You and your families will be obliterated, as the Emperor controls the stars!" Zeleska continued his harsh berating. "My word is the Emperor's. Do you understand me?"

"Plasma weapon, my lord. We are taking fire!" The pilot replied. "We cannot remain on-station."

 _That techpriestess again!_ Enraged, Zeleska saw the bubbles of plasma, flying from a gap in the support much further across the bridge, exploding against the Valkyrie's canopy. "Terminate the techpriestess and any personnel accompanying her. Ignore the xenos. I will corner her. Do as I command, simpleton!"

"We've been hit. We've been hit. Pulling out of range."

Wobbling now, the Valkyrie disengaged. Cracks had appeared in the canopy. The pilot too cowardly to turn his guns on the rogue techpriestess, Zeleska thought. He briefly toyed with the idea of ordering his bodyguards to open fire on the traitorous Valkyrie, but quickly threw it aside. He needed that transport, and the prize was near to hand. The hunter's trail was growing warm.

"Argus, do you have Lenz with you? Argus, respond!"

Behind Argus's voice was an unnatural roar, as if he was standing in the midst of a blaze. "My – my lord, Lenz's team disembarked and drove the traitors out of the hangar. But, be aware, a Chaos Thunderhawk has just crash-landed below my position. Everything is on fire. I am unsure of the status of Lenz's team."

"How many men do you have with you?"

"Seven, including myself."

"Corral the traitors. Drive them up in to Tleilax. I am about to make the crossing from Arrakis. We will coordinate our movements and place these traitors' necks in the noose. Guard Squadron, follow my lead!" Zeleska snarled, drawing his bolt pistol and flicking the safety off. Hotly anticipating crossing his blade with Izuru Numerial's, Zeleska now led his five scions in to the smoke screen left behind by the fugitives, working up his drug-enhanced body in to a battle-frenzy. Finding the mighty doors leading inside Tleilax Tower welded shut, Zeleska immediately recalled the Valkyrie for pickup. _I will take matters in to my own hands. If a problem arises then the only being I can rely on to fix it is myself._

* * *

 **Tleilax Tower Primary Hangar, 15:40**

Simply stepping around the lowered barrier that was intended to regulate traffic in to the hangar, Cyrano gestured impatiently for Lorne and Borens, who were sweeping the deserted compartment for any Cadians, to get out. From inside, Lorne stuck his middle finger against the glass and wiggled it. Next to him, Borens laughed.

 _Get out of there!_ Cyrano fought to control his exasperation with the pair. _Childish idiots_.

"So, that's it then. We're just walking in?" A Cadian voiced Cyrano's own misgivings.

"Quickly now." Cyrano waved the party through. "Help Shoshta."

Physically lifting the barrier up, Gunnel, Arken, and the rest, assisted Shoshta, who was still carrying the unconscious Eva in his arms.

"So, where's this ship then?" Lorne asked, once he and Borens had rejoined Cyrano.

"I don't know. Keep it quiet, you two." Cyrano shushed the Highlanders. "Take stock of our surroundings first."

Three giant hangar bays, each connected to one another by unsealed blast doors that super-heavies could roll through with room to spare, now stared Cyrano in the face. Judging by the blank wall on his right, they were in the rightmost hangar. Now, another problem was facing them. Adding to Cyrano's worry was the comparative lack of spacecraft sitting on the many empty pads.

 _Where's the shuttle?_ All that habited the hangar were loading cranes, overhead gantries, bulging tarpaulins covering heaps of crates, and thick fuel lines snaking across the floor from a trio of promethium tanks that stood in a corner.

"Stay away from that fuel," Cyrano whispered. "D'you hear me, Gunnel? Pass it on."

Helping to spread Cyrano's warning, Gunnel tapped Cyrano on the arm and pointed up at a semi-circular control room, jutting out above the passage connecting the hangars.

"Up there?"

"Should be a way to control the lifts. Maybe open up the hangar doors too."

"Okay, Gunnel, take Arken and Kasabo with you. Watch for any Interior Guard or civilians."

"Why civilians?" Gunnel frowned.

"Any plain-clothes personnel you come across, shoot them first. They are enemy."

"But why?"

Lowering his voice, Cyrano shook Gunnel by the shoulder. "Inquisition. Shoot them before any Interior Guard. D'you understand?"

"Er…"

"Go on. Get moving! You know where to go?"

"I think so, yes."

Hurrying away, the threesome slipped through a nondescript side door that hopefully led where they wanted to go. Without Lusia's guidance, Cyrano felt a little lost. _Thank the Emperor for Shoshta's_ _sense of direction!_

"Spread out, my lads." Cyrano whistled at the Highlanders. "Spread out."

There was a definite lack of cohesion now in the group. The Cadians, both ILC and the analyst, wandered about aimlessly, the Highlanders not bothering to scan the gantries and walkways overhead. _We are prime for an ambush._ Cyrano hissed through his teeth at the Cadians and the Highlanders, the latter of whom should have known better. " _Get to cover_."

Not a second had passed since he had uttered the words, when Shoshta exclaimed, "muzzle—"

Flashes lit up a covered walkway, hanging near the ceiling, the thunderous shriek of lasguns bellowing through the hangar, the beams whizzing down on to the group, striking surfaces, singing crates, and starting fires. Struck dead on his feet, Shoshta tipped forwards, his knees buckling beneath him, collapsing over Eva. Falling in behind a tall container, Cyrano snatched a glance up at the enemy's firing position. Soldiers, clad in black carapace and full-face helms, were being shouted at by a civilian in a grey jerkin, who was gesticulating wildly. _Inquisition!_ Cyrano paled in fear.

About to call for Lorne, Cyrano, instead, heard the comforting, and ear-splitting, thump of the Molota coming from somewhere over on his right. The instant the firing had started, Cyrano had lost track of everybody. _The plan is out. Improvise, dammit!_

Collecting himself, Cyrano leant out of cover to have another look, jerking back when a lasbeam sliced through the air beside him, the fierce heat scalding the skin on his left cheek. Yelping, Cyrano clasped his cheek, spitting out a bloody oath in the tongue of his horse-lord ancestors. Crawling along, keeping himself low, Cyrano put his eye to a narrow gap between crates, seeing not just Shoshta lying out in the open, but two more of his friends; all having been confirmed in the ambush.

"Hey!" Mrenk, curled up behind the base of a crane, called out. "Hey!"

"Cadian, are you alright?" Cyrano shouted back.

Nodding, Mrenk looked on the verge of tears.

"Return fire. Come on, start firing back!" Cyrano leant around to fire his Kantrael up at the enemy, squeezing off a short flurry of lasbeams. Gingerly, Mrenk followed his example. Only he, Cyrano, and the Highlanders were armed. "That's it, keep 'em pinned!" Cyrano offered encouragingly.

"Eva's out there." Mrenk pointed at Eva's body, lying underneath Shoshta's.

"Don't point, they'll see it."

"I'm going. Cover me."

"NO—!"

Breaking cover, firing his M-36 from the hip, Mrenk was cut down immediately, lasfire blasting his torso, melting the material of his jacket in to his skin, which bubbled under the heat, catching fire as it was incinerated, leaving his innards and ribcage exposed. Slapping against the floor, a deadweight, Mrenk lay still, his eyes a dull grey.

"Pick it up. Pick it up!" Cyrano exhorted the two surviving ILC men, both unarmed and hiding from the enemy's fire. "Pick the rifle up!"

Scooting over, Cyrano kicked the M-36 in the Cadian's direction, before continuing on to Lorne and Borens. Already, Lorne had worked his way through most of his 75-round drum, and was patiently waiting for Borens to fit a 40-round box. "C'mon, me braves, see how you ya like it when they shoot back!" Lorne snarled, hauling back on his bolt and letting go, his next words lost over the roar of the Molota.

"Keep their heads down, Highlanders. I'm going for Eva." Cyrano thrust his own M-36 at the only other unarmed Cadian. "Give me covering fire!"

"Oi, cover the bearded fella!" Lorne's own stentorian voice trumped the din that filled the hangar. "NOW!"

Running sideways then changing direction several times, Cyrano barrelled over to Shoshta, falling on to his side when he reached the Cadian, reaching under his armpits and rolling him off Eva. Aware of the smack of lasbeams igniting tiny patches of the floor around him, Cyrano dug his fingers inside Eva's collar, dragging her body backwards. What felt like a spear coated with boiling acid lanced across his side, making him lose his grip on Eva. Biting down upon the howl, Cyrano smelt his own flesh burning, but found his hold on Eva once more, bringing her body out of the enemy's line of fire.

"Is she okay?" A Cadian asked.

Nodding shakily, Cyrano found the raw wound in his side, and pressed his hand against it. It stung like fury. "Izuru. Izuru." Cyrano coughed. "Izuru."

" _Cyrano. Cyrano, respond_."

"We were ambushed inside the hangar. A civilian in grey, leading soldiers in black carapace. We've lost four men…"

A yowl as another of the Cadians went down. This one had taken a shot to his arm, and was clutching it, his face screwed up in pain. The M-36 he had been firing was lying next to him.

"Two wounded. The Highlanders are keeping the enemy's heads down. Where we are, we can't access the shuttle. It's underneath the hangar. Where are you?"

" _Understood. We are on fast approach to the crossing point, and will be on Tleilax within ten minutes. Our friend has still to complete her task. Can you hold your ground?_ "

"We will do our damndest." Cyrano did his best to keep the tremor out of his voice. He did not want Izuru or James worrying about him. Not when they had their own worries to contend with.

" _Affirmative. Khaine watch over you, dearest friend_."

Izuru's words touching Cyrano, enough to shove away the pain that was occupying the forefront of his mind, the cavalryman scooped up an M-36 and blasted at where he could see the enemy's muzzles, coldly repeating the names of his dead companions under his breath. " _I see you._ "

Wondering just what had happened to Gunnel's party, Cyrano glanced up at the control room. _Come on, Cadians, do something. We're out on a limb here._ Nothing appeared to be happening, to Cyrano's frustration. He was considering sending one of the Cadians after Gunnel's party, further cutting down on their firepower, when the silhouette of a Valkyrie skewed sideways in to view, its nose pointing towards the hangar. With only the briefest second to ponder on who it belonged to, Cyrano spied the white letter I's painted upon the craft, as it performed a 180-degree turn. Backing in to the hangar, the rear ramp released, revealing a further eight of the black-clad troopers, calmly waiting to disembark. Behind them, a scarred, shaven-headed man waited.

"Back! Back!" Cyrano screamed, thrusting a Cadian at Eva. "Take her. Highlanders, break contact. Cover us!"

Lifting his Molota from the surface he was resting it on, Lorne sent a burst behind him as he and Borens ran, both flinging hearty curses at the enemy.

"Pull out, all of you!" Cyrano bellowed, ducking when the troopers found cover and opened fire on him. Checking that he was the last to pull back, Cyrano felt a shadow engulf the hangar. Not coincidentally, the enemy fire slackened as heads turned to see what was coming up behind them.

"What the…?" Horror dawning on his face, Cyrano felt his legs carrying him backwards, as a Marine Thunderhawk, painted black, and adorned with skulls mounted atop spikes, plummeted towards the Inquisition Valkyrie. With black smoke trailing from both turbines, the gunship's pilot put his ship on a collision course with the open hangar, trying to take as many with him as possible. Throwing himself behind the base of a crane, Cyrano curled up as tightly as he could, covering his ears as a thunderous shockwave burst over his head, followed by a hail of twisted metal, smoke, and flame. Remaining still for a minute, Cyrano swiped his hat off when he felt flames licking the fur. Stamping on it, he beat the fire out, leaving the stained grey fur smoking. "Lorne?" Cyrano coughed, his eyes watering. "Borens?"

Gasping at the enflamed burn in his side, Cyrano rolled to his feet, shielding his face when the force of the burning wrecks hit him in the face. Seeing nothing through the black smoke, Cyrano held his M-36 one-handed, covering where he had last seen the enemy, staggering over to a Cadian that was lying on his front.

"Hey." Cyrano shook the man. "Cadian!"

Bursting through the smoke, their lasguns raised, the faceless troopers barked in strangely distorted voices. Scrambling away, Cyrano dodged between a scattered pile of containers, nearly tripping over a boot that was sticking out from underneath one. He did not stop to try and confirm the identity of whoever it was that had been crushed to death, he just ran on.

"Get up, you. Get Eva out of her!" Cyrano growled at a Cadian who was sitting next to Eva, hugging his legs against his chest. "Get her out of here, now!"

Blubbering, the Cadian refused to move, so Cyrano left him there. He did not know his name, nor did he wish to find out. "C'mon, Eva." Cyrano lifted the young woman in to his arms. Cries from the Highlanders floated through the growing inferno that was slowly taking over the hangar. _Those fuel tanks!_ Cyrano saw the flames spreading over to the giant reservoirs. _Throne, we've got to get out here before they go up._

"Cyrano, sound off!" Lorne cried.

"Help." Cyrano felt his strength ebbing. "Help."

"Right fucking firework display that was." Lorne rushed from the smoke, Borens beside him. "Never thought Zeke would help us out."

"I took fire. I need help with Eva." Cyrano laid Eva gently down, resting on his knees. "Lost the Cadians. They're all down."

"She's dead," Lorne pronounced, after searching for her pulse. "Don't bother with her any more, mate."

"…No." Horrified, Cyrano searched desperately for Eva's pulse. "Can't be. How?"

"It's happened. That's it, mate. We're burnt."

"Contact!" Borens shouted. "They're coming."

"Pull out! Pull out!" Lorne walked backwards, laying down a base of fire on the emerging enemy.

"Gellen Highlanders." Borens shouted in fury. "Don't present your back to 'em!"

Loping away from the enemy, Cyrano added to the Highlander's fire, trying to keep the enemy away. Deprived of their ability to kill, Cyrano and the Highlanders worked to suppress their targets, pouring rounds and lasfire in to the smoke, not know whether their fire was finding its mark.

Now in sight of the door Gunnel, Arken and Kasabo had taken, Cyrano made to turn around and return fire on the enemy, but felt a spearpoint plunge in to the back of his plate carrier, and something inside his body being driven outwards, tearing the skin on his belly. Knocked forward a pace, Cyrano tottered. "Izuru, we can't hold the hangar. We're pulling back up the tower. We'll... we'll meet you…" He struggled to remain conscious. His fall only prevented when Lorne and Borens grabbed his arms and got them around their shoulders. Izuru's voice was in his ear. "Cyrano? Cyrano?"

Dimly, Cyrano was aware of a battered Gunnel and Kasabo meeting them mid-way up a flight of stairs. Both had blood on their shirts and faces.

"Cyrano, where's Mrenk and Shoshta?" Gunnel's face was livid. "Where's Eva?"

"Wasted, the lot of 'em." Lorne glared. "What the fuck you been up to then?"

"Interior Guard were waiting for us. They got Arken."

"Hangar's a no-go then. Alright, we'll—"

"There's a turbolift just down a corridor from here. Nowhere else to go." Kasabo shrugged. "Out of options here."

"Alright, take Cyrano, he's hurt bad. Guide me! Borens, cover the rear!"

Dropping in and out of consciousness, Cyrano felt himself be lowered in to a sitting position on the lift floor. Above him, Lorne, Borens, Gunnel and Kasabo argued loudly, their smoked-stained, sweaty faces out of focus. Fingers feeling underneath his damaged body armour, Cyrano gasped as he felt an odd lump on his belly. Something squidgy had been ripped out from where it should have been sitting inside his body. It was now held in only by Cyrano's shirt. Through pain-filled eyes, Cyrano squinted at the light above him. _Ilona…_

* * *

 **Tleilax Tower, Floor 71, 16:13**

Cursing all things Inquisition, I prodded at the tiny fragments of debris I could feel embedded in my arms and legs, swearing colourfully under my breath at the untimely appearance of the enemy gunship. Behind me, Lusia worked her cutting torch up the gap between the halves, barring the only entrance to Tleilax from the scions.

"Oi, hurry up, why dontcha?"

"Give her a mo', James," said Azar.

"Patience," Izuru said quietly. She, Azar, and I were facing outwards, covering the angles in the broad chamber we had entered after leaving the bridge. It irritated me that Azar was the one preaching patience now. _He's changed. Don't know if it's for the better._

Paying Izuru a glance, I noticed the state her face was in, and the angry cuts on her hands. Stained with dirt, and likewise embedded with little fragments, the warrior woman bore dark rings underneath her eyes, which were tinged with red. Lusia's exclamation that she had finished briefly turned my attention away from her to the smiling techpriestess.

"Finished," Lusia repeated.

"Right, let's do your thing then go meet Cyrano. Sort this mess out, yeah?" Rising, I slapped Azar on the shoulder. "Moving. Sniper, moving."

"Should take a look at you, maybe." Azar looked at my sleeves and trouserlegs, both flecked with blood. "How's the stickie too?"

"Superficial, mate. Can't stop now," I said lightly.

"Unless the enemy has brought along exothermic charges, I doubt anybody will be using that door." Lusia grinned, flashing her torch's flame at us.

"Right, two minutes. Drink or eat anything if you have it, Azar. Lusia, you do whatever you need to do. Oil yourself. Whatever."

"Ooh, in front of you – never!" Acting affronted, Lusia stalked away.

"Where's it hurt, mate?" Azar asked.

Sitting down upon the foot of a staircase, I sneered. "That's the problem. It doesn't. But, I know for a fact it's gonna hurt like hell later on. I'm fine now."

"Feeling frisky after that one."

My left knee began to jiggle. "Know exactly what you mean. Turns you on, doesn't it?"

"Maybe I'll take you and the lads out. Show you a good time. Back-street brothel on Haven. Big hot-tubs. You pay the whores extra, they jump in with you. Proper good fun."

"Brilliant, mate. I'm game."

" _Hunh_. Never thought I'd hear you go with one o' my plans."

"Might be Cadia that done that, I dunno…"

Mumbling something, Azar stood up and moved over to talk to Lusia. Izuru was coming down the stairs behind me, a cold look on her face.

"Where's it hurt?" I asked as Izuru sat down on the step beside me, placing her Roga in her lap.

"Our surroundings are free of enemy for now. But, I need not have told you had you bothered to check yourself."

"Oi. Took some flak from that bird, I can tell ya." I peered at the reddened mess that was Izuru's right ear, and the broad lacerations caused by the fragmentation, criss-crossing the, already prolific, scars on her face. "Picked up some new ones there. Be telling them stories to Ilic and Korsarro, I reckon." I reached out to touch Izuru's cheek with my glove. She batted it away lazily, saying nothing, not even looking me in the eye, simply staring straight ahead; off in to space.

"Hey. I'm sorry. It didn't mean nothing, y'know. Us lads like a natter. Bit of banter and… y'know, we say things we don't honestly mean." Snatching a glance at Azar, I added, "I wasn't actually gonna do it…"

"Never a more mis-matched pair…" Izuru was staring at Azar and Lusia, who were chatting together.

"Nah, remind you o' someone." I snorted, grinning. "Dunno, I can't think…"

Lusia, asking for Azar's hand, placed something small there, and closed his fingers and thumb over it. Leaning forwards, she said something too quiet for me to hear. Only able to see the side of Azar's face, it looked to me that he was upset about something.

"Yes, it hurts. Where it hurts you cannot see." Izuru's eyes fell to the floor. "But know… that I will carry the pain for you. Twice I have done so before. It will be thrice, if you would allow me."

"What you talking about?"

"I wish to—" Breaking off, Izuru pressed a finger to her ear. "Cyrano? Respond." A pause, then a concerned look passed across her face. "Lorne. Where is Cyrano?" Leaping to her feet, Izuru bounded away.

"What, is Cyrano hit?" Beckoning to Azar and Lusia, I raced after Izuru. "Hurry up, you two!"

"Izuru, slow down. We don't know who else is up here!" I whispered as loudly as I dared, forgetting about the loud slap of my boots on the floor. "D'you hear me?"

"Lorne, where are you?" Izuru flung herself around a sharp corner, leaping down a staircase, six-at-a-time, then vaulting outright over the banister, down to the floor below. Painfully familiar with just how fast Izuru could move when she wanted to, I took the long way down, very nearly losing her.

"Where are you?" I cried, no longer keeping up any pretence at secrecy. The way Izuru had rushed off had me feeling sick with worry.

"James, come quick, Cyrano is hurt!" Izuru's voice came to me faintly. Thumping was coming from above. Azar and Lusia's feet were rumbling down the stairs towards me, their voices distant. Deaf to their questions, I hared towards Izuru's voice, soon finding my way out in to a chamber holding two turbolifts and a blast door at one end, two sets of wide, curving staircases to the sides, and a giant statue of a Space Marine, decorated in gold, standing in the centre on a plinth. Candles were burning in iron brackets around the room and in grooves cut in the floor.

"Lorne, where's the rest?" I shouted, pelting over to the small group of only Callum Lorne, Ben Borens, Gunnel, and Kasabo. They, along with Izuru, were crouching around a body; Cyrano.

"Cyrano!" Dropping my weapon, I pushed in to the circle. "Where's he hit? Where's he hit!"

"His stomach." Borens pointed at a bulge underneath Cyrano's jacket. At that, the deathly pale Cyrano made to grasp it.

"No, leave it. Don't touch it. Stickie, get his hands," Lorne snapped. "Cadians, watch those doors."

"Here." Izuru took Cyrano's trembling hands in her own. "I am here. Look up at me."

"Lusia, get welding. Azar, don't just stand there. Bloody well open his shirt." Angrily tearing at the clasps holding Cyrano's body armour together, I wrenched the battered halves away. The rear section had a hole the size of a plate in it, the edges still warm after melting away from the heat.

"Okay, soon have you sorted out…" Fiddling with the buttons, I pulled the shirt apart.

"Emperor's blood, what is that?" Kasabo covered his mouth in shock, quickly turning away from the nauseating sight.

Putting his chin on his breast, Cyrano screamed. "What is that?"

"N-no. Don't look at that. Look at her." Lorne jerked Cyrano's head away. "Look at her."

"Should that be outside?" Gunnel gaped.

"I dunno, you tell me. Are you a doctor?" I babbled, transfixed by the oddly blueish organs, flecked with bright red blood, that had burst out of Cyrano's stomach.

"Look, just cover it up. Cover it up!" Lorne slapped at my frozen hands. "James, cover it up."

Leaving Cyrano, who had begun to moan loudly, in Izuru's care, Lorne dragged me out of earshot. "He's binned," he hissed. "We give him morphine, keep him quiet and hope he don't attract attention. Ain't no doctors anywhere."

Blinking through the gathering tears, I shook my head dumbly. "Don't get it."

"Uh?"

"I don't get it."

"Better get it fast then, boy. I'm sorry 'bout Cyrano. We lost a hell of a lot more down there. And what did that's coming up 'ere next to waste you and her, so pick up that rifle and find a firing position."

There was not a single hint of remorse in Lorne's voice. No sorrow in his expression. Not a trace. But, then again, an iron heart was necessary. And this was far from over.

With Lusia appearing at my shoulder, showing me the inert plasma cutter, I brushed her off wordlessly, not caring whether she hadn't managed to seal the turbolifts. Seating myself next to Cyrano, I looked on as Izuru pulled the cap off a syrette of morphine with her teeth, and pressed the needle in to Cyrano's thigh. Mercifully, his agony-filled moans began to subside, being replaced by long, laboured intakes of breath.

"I've got…" Cyrano murmured, his eyelids drooping.

"Yeah, Cyrano. What is it, old pal?" I found Cyrano's hand and held it. Izuru had the other.

"Mmm, leave me behind the statue. Give me a grenade. I will give our friends a parting gift."

"Are you sure? Is that what you want? It don't have to be that way, y'know."

"…Doesn't." Cyrano smiled up at me dreamily, his weeping eyes twinkling. "And, yes it does. Quickly now. Before I ride."

"Okay. Okay, Cyrano."

"…Ilona. I've come back to you." Cyrano extended his fingertips, touching Izuru's chin. "Is that you, Ilona?"

"Yes, my love." Izuru moved Cyrano's hand to her cheek. "I await you."

"Bear me a child, I beg. Will you have me?"

Her grief-filled eyes rising to meet mine, Izuru whispered, "Yes."

"Will he ride like his father before him?"

"With pride." Izuru's jaw began to tremble.

I clamped my own teeth together, pressing down hard to keep from breaking in to pieces. Reaching across Cyrano, I took Izuru by the shoulder. Tears were edging down her cheeks, drawing lines through the marks of dirt.

"James. I want to see James."

"S'alright." I sniffed. "I'm still here."

"Don't tell them it was like this."

"Of course."

"Don't tell them it was like…"

Dipping my head down to Cyrano's, I realised the last breath had passed across his lips. Nothing more was to come. Embracing Cyrano with one hand, I pressed my nose in to his shoulder, shutting my eyes. Allowing myself a moment's silence, I placed a bare hand over Cyrano's heart. _Bye, pal_.

I was in Martti's shoes, bidding James farewell after the nineteen-year-old had passed away in the factory cellar, unknowing of the cruel fate that awaited me. Head inclined in sorrow, Izuru sung softly, almost chanting the foreign words that flowed off her tongue. Standing up, I wiped my nose on the back of my hand, and swallowed. "Okay, I need a hand getting Cyrano in position. Someone toss me a frag too." As a last measure, I removed Cyrano's identity tags, hoping one day I might deliver them to Ilona. What else had I to give as a reminder of him?

Focusing solely on setting the booby-trap up, I removed all thoughts of the man I was using to bait the enemy. He was a confirmed kill for now. I did not know him. I did not care. I wanted to use him, as well as every weapon I had on me to kill as many of the enemy as I could before they wasted me.

"Lusia." I snapped my fingers at the techpriestess. "Find what you need to do and get it done. Then find us a way off this tower."

Having stood silently to one side, her head bowed underneath her hood, Lusia backed away from me and turned to leave. "My deepest apologies."

"Not your fault," I said flatly. "Do your job, now, please."

With Lusia's departure, I ordered Azar and Gunnel to take position on the west stairs, Lorne and Borens on the centre landing, and Kasabo and I on the east stairs. Izuru I left to her own devices, expecting her to find her own spot. With all seven of us occupying elevated positions, and each with an unobstructed view of the turbolifts and blast door, we waited. At my feet, I laid curved box magazines and 40-millimetre grenades. A little along from me, Kasabo placed two grenades and magazines for his Tova-54 in close reach. "For what we are about to receive," he muttered, making the sign of the Aquila. In the semi-lit chamber, I made the Aquila too, wondering how long ago the Emperor had forsaken us.

* * *

 **Lake Scutula**

Lucky enough to have linked up with men who were wearing life preservers, Joe began to notice fewer and fewer heads were still above the surface. In the hours he, Aimo, Peter, and Tom had been floating, countless dramas had unfolded around them. Two men, both somehow finding a bit of wreckage sheared off from _Ionia's_ underbelly, had clambered aboard, and, both still in possession of their M-36s, shot each other in a bizarre suicide pact. As if the swimmers did not have enough to contend with, Zeke fighters swooped down occasionally, casually strafing the stranded men. Each time, Joe submerged himself, pulling Peter under with him, praying the cannon shells avoided them. But far and away the biggest threat was the sheer exhaustion and failing morale that overwhelmed so many of those in the water. Since the departure of the Valkyrie, no friendly aircraft had appeared. _Don't give up. Don't give up._ Joe repeated, keeping a firm grip on the back of Peter's collar.

"Wake up!" Joe slapped Peter hard across his cheek after the boy had fallen asleep for the second time. "Peter, wake up!"

"Joe?" Aimo started suddenly, spitting out a mouthful of water. "Shit, I was dreaming there."

"Uh. Whassat?" Tom's head, half-beneath the water, jerked up. "Mother?"

"Not sure your mother would be of much help 'ere, Tom," said Aimo.

"Aw, you ain't seen me mum. We could ride her to the shore. If only we had paddles, eh?" Tom's laughter spread to those nearby but it was hollow and altogether fleeting. Several times trying for a song, Joe and Aimo hadn't managed to get beyond the first few lines before one or the other forgot them. Then, the co-operative effort between the guardsmen, crewmen, and grunts was interrupted by a screaming man, who, after swimming closer, looked to be about to latch himself on to the far end of the human chain link, when he suddenly attacked the man on the end. Not realising who it was, Joe ignored the ensuing fracas until Tom gave a shout. "It's Ral!"

"Ral?" Joe thrust himself upwards, craning his neck to see the attacker's face. "Ral!"

Leaving Peter with Aimo and Tom, Joe struck out for Ral, who was struggling plaintively with the other man, who was likewise on the verge of exhaustion.

"Ral!" Joe spluttered, kicking his numb legs out behind him. "Stop!"

Pulling himself along the human chain, Joe reached Ral and tried to find purchase on his wet clothing. A thin trail of blood was running down Ral's forehead. He had taken a crack on the head, and by the looks of things, had only recently come around, likely finding himself alone and with a lungful of sticky oil, enough to drive anybody mad with fear.

"I gotcha, Ral." Joe found Ral's collar, lost it, then took a hand in the face as Ral flapped his arm backwards "Gimme your arm, Ral."

Thrusting himself away from Joe, kicking him hard in the midriff, Ral then attacked another man who was floating by himself nearby. Feebly swimming over, Joe made to intervene again, but Ral's thrashings made it impossible to secure a hold on him.

"Stop, he's my mate!" Joe's cry was lost over the loud splashing, receiving another blow against his face from the maddened Ral. Tasting blood on his teeth this time, Joe could only watch the awful struggle for life happening between the two men. He was too weak by now to wade in and have a chance at breaking the fight up. It ended with the lone swimmer coming out on top, and Ral's head sinking beneath the surface.

Diving downwards, Joe swept at the water with his hands, kicking down further and further until he could feel the pressure building in his ears. _Where did he go? He was right here!_ Gulping down air when his head burst out of the water, Joe tried again, willing himself to see through the murk. After a third dive, Joe very nearly did not make the surface. With daylight slowly fading, Joe howled up into the sky, shouting Ral's name again and again.

* * *

 **Tleilax Tower, 16:17**

With fingers glued to an overhead handhold, the Inquisitor stood beside the Valkyrie's rear hatch as the ship flew over the north-facing landing pad – little more than a circular platform that jutted out of the tower; to be used only in emergencies. With four feet left to descend, Zeleska leapt from the ramp, landing smartly on the ferrocrete, adjusting his ruffled cape, the fierce wind pressing it against his body. Five pairs of boots slammed down behind him, the scions quickly assuming formation in Zeleska's wake. Three now carried ballistic shields slung over their backs. Lighter and more compact than the Interior Guard tower shields, the durable ceramite could withstand 19-millimetre bolter shells and all rifle calibre rounds, giving the scions near-invulnerability from the front.

"Argus, any update on Lenz's whereabouts?"

"None. Only two of his team survived the traitor Thunderhawk crash-landing. I have rounded up a platoon of Interior Guard for you."

"Well done, Argus."

"It is an inferno down here..."

"Forget the hangar, Argus, I want you up on floor seventy-one."

"As you speak, my lord, I am sending up the Interior Guard in squads via the turbolifts."

"You and your team will exit on floor sixty-eight and proceed up to me on foot."

"My lord."

Tightening his collar against the spitting rain, Zeleska flicked a finger, signalling a bodyguard to set a micro-charge on the locked door. Turning, he waved off the Valkyrie. "Take up orbit. Await my signal."

Blasting the six men with warm air, the Valkyrie took off in to the rain. Stepping back from the door, the scion briefly descrambled his vocal modulator from its normal robotic growl. "Armed!" he said, turning his head away. Zeleska covered one ear. When the crack had passed, Zeleska retreated from the opening door, letting the scions venture inside first, sweeping the unlit corridors and chambers with torches attached to the barrels of their hotshot lasguns.

"My lord." Argus spoke.

"Argus. Status?" Zeleska held up a hand to the scions. All five froze in place.

"The first two squads are on the seventieth floor. Two more are embarking as I speak."

"Understood. You are directly below us. Find a staircase and proceed to seventy-one. We will consolidate and drive the traitors up to the summit."

"Yes, my lord."

* * *

I did not look once at the body sitting against the near side of the statue, fearing it would trigger a surge of uncontrollable grief that would leave me in no condition to fight. The coldness of the Red Rifle's synthetic handguard, now warm in my tight grip, dug lines in my skin. Squeezing a bunch of cotton on my trouserleg in my fist, I pulled, wringing the stained, filthy material in to creases. Leaning back, I rested my head against the wall, watching the persistent drumming of Kasabo's knee. He had prayed a lot, saying nothing to me then turning inside himself once he had run out of prayers. I had no more prayers. Words spoken in silence would do nothing to aid us. Faith wouldn't shield us, as I had so often heard during training. Prayers wouldn't bring Cyrano back.

The eerie whoosh of the great door, rising slowly upwards, preceded the fast pad of bootheels on the carpets, the rustle of clothing, and the slow breathing of many men. I peered over the balustrade, glimpsing boots waiting for the door to rise. Tapping Kasabo with my toecap, I set the Red Rifle's safety and checked the chamber, propping the KA upright and within close reach. My Grapo was loaded, my frag grenades without their safety adhesive, my pistol chambered and cocked. Next to me, Kasabo eased the stock of his Tova in to place. On the landing, Lorne was crouching down with his stubber shouldered, the bipod legs resting above him on the parapet, Borens next to him with ammunition. On the far side, Azar was watching me. Giving a quick nod, he brought his Lecta to bear, Gunnel doing the same with his M-36. Izuru I could not see. Choosing my Grapo first, I extended the stock and tucked the rubber pad in to my shoulder. The ladder sights I left down. There would be no need for precision.

The figures stepping cautiously across the threshold were not the scions. _He's_ _sending in the cannon fodder first. Cunning sod._ All of the guardsmen wore Cadian battle armour with the orange markings of the Interior Guard. Not a single carapace giant, towering over the regular guardsmen, was to be seen. Kasabo instinctively lowered his muzzle. I suspected Gunnel was having second thoughts too. Kasabo stared at me blankly when I glared at him. _They won't hesitate a second to waste you if you throw the towel in. You're just as much a traitor as we are. The uniform won't make a difference._

Forgetting the reluctant Kasabo, I lifted my head just enough to see Lorne stand up, steadying his mounted stubber. Nodding my head, I rose and aimed the Grapo at the thick body of Interior Guard, my finger putting pressure on the trigger. Lorne's stubber beat me to the mark by less than half a second. Roaring from the landing, the muzzle spitting flame, the Molota tore through the Cadian ranks, my 40-mil exploding among them a moment later, knocking many off their feet as the chamber was lit up by muzzle flashes and filled with screams and shouts. Following our example, Azar and Gunnel added to the slaughter, the Lecta and Kantrael lighting up the confused guardsmen, the bullets and particle beams slicing great paths through the bodies. Deeper cracks – a higher-calibre rifle – punctuated the mayhem; Izuru's Roga finding its mark each time it spoke. Sitting the empty Grapo down, I picked up my KA and aimed it in to the scrambling horde of bewildered Cadians, unloading burst after burst, my fire blowing off limbs in clouds of red mist. A blast of muzzle close to my right ear; Kasabo emptied his Tova in a precious two seconds before fumbling awkwardly with a second box of .40-calibre cartridges. Unrelenting in their savage denouncement of the Imperials, the Highlanders stitched patterns across the floor, chopping through the candles in their brackets, spattering those unscathed with hot wax. Flung in all directions, the pieces of candle – once cream – became red as they mixed with the bright spurts of blood that whipped through the air. Dispensing the shell casing, I fitted a second round from my bandolier inside the Grapo's bore, locking and cocking the grenade pistol, finishing off the last of the Interior Guard with my high-explosive. Not a single guardsman was left standing after the seven second contact, all lying wasted or unconscious across the killing floor we had made.

Flaring my nostrils at the stink of the propellant, I kept the Red Rifle on target, slowly drawing the muzzle across the Interior Guardsmen, watching for anyone playing dead and possibly readying a grenade or holdout weapon. Metallic clicks came from my left as the others saw to their magazines and power packs, either reloading loose rounds, changing magazines, or letting barrels cool in the aftermath of the contact. Checking Kasabo was alright, I stole around to the Highlanders. Along with the ungodly mess of shell-casings at their feet were two empty magazines, meaning Lorne had to have fired almost eighty rounds in the initial engagement.

"Ease up on the lead, lads. Won't last forever."

"Bring 'em on, I say." Lorne shrugged, adding loose cartridges to his current magazine. "Cadians know how to die, I give 'em that."

"You okay, Borens?"

"Yeah, mate. What about you?"

"Peckish. Dunno 'bout you…"

Chortling, Borens gave me a friendly punch on the arm. "Take care, brother."

There were equally large portions of shell casings around Azar and Gunnel's position, the former entirely responsible for it. Two spent magazines were lying at Azar's feet, a little away from the six loaded magazines he had ready. Slipping down beside him, I asked if either him or Gunnel were hit.

"We're okay, James. How's Lusia?"

Azar asking after Lusia surprised me. I couldn't give him an answer, so I just shrugged. "I dunno. But if we're doin' what we're doin' right here. Then Lusia's doing what she's s'posed to be doin' up the top of the tower."

"Sergeant, I don't think I can do any more of this…" Gunnel looked at me forlornly. "Why did you make us fire on our own people?"

"You 'aving doubts about this?" Azar chuckled. "Bit bloody late for that. You're in this all the way now."

"They're not your people. The Inquisitor's throwing 'em at us in droves. Trying to wear us down," I said.

"Misguided, are they?"

"Led by an Emperor-loving ratbag, yeah."

"Who's after your xenos floozy and that bloody techpriestess."

"Oi, that's enough now, son." Azar stiffened. "Don't be railing on Lusia. She's a good girl."

About to come out with a friendly barb aimed at Azar's odd thing for Lusia, I heard a low whistle given by one of the Highlanders. Guessing the enemy was returning, I hissed at Azar and Gunnel to stand-to, scuttling over to Lorne and Borens, making sure they were also ready.

"Contact," Lorne said, his voice drowned out as more Interior Guard rolled in from the blackness behind the blast door. With stealth out of the question now, the Cadians barrelled in to the open, rinsing the air with barrages of lasfire. With my left ear blocked by the judder of the Molota, I returned fire, ducking as the few Interior Guard that managed to rush close enough before they were cut down lobbed grenades up at us. A single frag landed at Borens' feet. Never panicking, Borens scooped the smoking grenade up and pitched it expertly down in to the Interior Guard ranks, the follow-up slur lost to the noise. Aware Kasabo was on his own, I left the landing, turning the corner and making for where he was crouched, nearly tripping over the grenade that landed just ahead of me. Depositing the bomb back with its owners, I felt the punch of the blast, which happened mid-air, flooring yet more guardsmen.

"Stairs!" Kasabo cried, seeing a head appear.

Working my trigger five times, I hit a guardsman who had taken a chance and rushed up the stairs Kasabo had been covering, striking two other men directly behind him. Kasabo was struggling to clear a jam in his Tova, jerking the locked charging handle impotently. Thumping Kasabo on the shoulder, I passed him my Volg pistol, exchanging it for the automatic. "Cover the stairs!"

A hefty thwack against the balustrade shook free the spent casing, which hadn't ejected properly after its primer had been struck; now giving me a working weapon.

"Help!" Kasabo showed me the Volg he had quickly emptied.

"You're clear." I slapped the Tova against his chest, taking my Volg back. Forgoing reloading, I disengaged the slide lock and shoved it back in its holster. Giving a loud 'oh!', Kasabo kicked a hot grenade down the stairs, rolling away when it went off, stalling any more assaults. Coughing in the cloud of dirty smoke that floated up to us, I got up and fired down at the Interior Guard, noticing a bolter team running up behind the assault squads before I was forced to duck.

"Lorne, the gun!" I screamed. "Get the fucking gun!"

Setting the heavy weapon down on a body of a fallen comrade, the assistant gunner opened an ammunition box and brought out a thick belt of shells, moving to fix it in to the bolter's feed tray. Not thinking, I felt for a grenade and pulled the pin, hurling it overarm at the weapon team. In lieu of the shrapnel, a grey cloud burst among the weapon team, coating their skin and clothing in burning phosphorus, cooking off the ammunition in the gun, creating a brief firework display in the corner of the room. Thrown in to further disarray, the dregs of Interior Guard began dragging their wounded back. Seeing the Cadian's will to fight broken, I gave the signal to cease fire. "Okay, cease fire. That's it, they've had enough!"

His rounds continuing to snap at the heels of the fleeing Cadians, Lorne was the last to stop, bellowing himself hoarse. Slumping against the wall, I dragged my glove down my face, gouging lines in the grime. "Y'alright, Kasabo?" I asked, my voice coming over faint and distant in my ringing ears. Azar was waving from the other stairs. He and Gunnel had also beaten off Cadian assaults on their stairs. Four Interior Guard lay spread-eagled on the steps. It appeared the Highlanders were continuing to do the most damage to the attackers, by the dozens of bodies that were stacking up under their fire. Raising a thumb at Lorne, I expected a return gesture. The Gellen, however, was frozen, an intense stare on his face, and still aiming his stubber. Sensing something wrong, I got up, hurrying round to his position. Among the half dozen empty magazines and piles of shell-casings lay Ben Borens. The right side of his head was laid to the bone, the hair and flesh having burnt away, giving off a crisp tang. Kneeling in the brass, I lifted Borens' bonnet off, holding it out for Lorne. Shaking his head, Lorne rested his chin on the Molota, blinking as if he was about to fall asleep. Saying nothing, I placed a hand on Lorne's shoulder and went back to Kasabo. The young man was praying again.

"What have we done?" Kasabo whispered after finishing his prayer. "Denounce me. I am a heretic and a traitor."

"Shut up, Kasabo," I murmured, sitting down at the top of the stairs.

"What have I done?"

Reversing his Tova, Kasabo pushed the barrel inside his mouth, tilted it upwards and pulled the trigger. Impartial to the suicide, I glanced at the spread of red around Kasabo's body, and leant my head back against the wall. Staring glumly at the ceiling, I waited for the next assault.

* * *

Cries for the medicae irritated the Inquisitor as he watched the surviving Interior Guardsmen drag wounded comrades back from the traitor's guns, leaving sticky blood trails upon the carpet. Such a failure he would have normally punished with instant execution, fitting for traitors that fled from the enemy instead of dying doing their duty. Setting examples would have to wait though. Sneering at the lone Interior Guard medic, Zeleska beckoned to Argus, whom Zeleska had ordered to hang back with the dozen scions. "Nothing more to send in, Argus?"

"Interior Guard manpower exhausted, my lord." Argus turned cruel eyes on the wounded guardsmen. "Useless layabouts."

"The Interior Guard performed as expected, Argus. _As expected_." Zeleska stressed the words, for the Cadians had done exactly what he wanted: wear down the enemy, exhaust their ammunition, and deplete their morale.

"Permission to lead your guard squadron in the next assault, my lord." Argus racked the slide of his bolt pistol. "A display in soldiery is what these traitors need."

"Denied. You will not lead unless I lead first. Stay your bolt pistol, Argus. Keen your aim is. But fiery is your temperament also. Scions, take as many alive as you can. Leave the xenos to me. You will not take action against her unless it is to protect my life."

"My lord." Argus bowed.

"Deploy shields!"

The scions in possession of the ballistic shields brought them around to their front, bracing their hotshot lasguns in the curved cut-outs in the ceramite, enabling them to provide fire as they advanced. The three shield-bearers, taking point, waited for their team-mates to stack up behind them. When this was done, the dozen fell silent, holding their positions perfectly.

"Go!" Zeleska shouted. _Go get them_.

Thundering away down the corridor, the scions were greeted with the same murderous volume of fire as the Interior Guard had been. Watching the pantomime of flashes from a distance, Zeleska observed the chaos calmly, his lips twitching in anticipation of the blood he would shortly spill.


	49. Chapter 48

**The Citadel, Tleilax Tower, 16:34**

Running footsteps – drumrolls – beat upon the floor. The clank of heavy armour dropped me a hint that this third sortie was being undertaken by the scions who were, at last, showing us their teeth. Alone on the east stairs, I opened the Grapo's bore, checking the round's primer was unstruck then snapping the weapon shut. Pushing myself up, I glimpsed a dozen black shadows, three of which were armed with shields, stepping over the Cadian dead. Giving a hollow cough, the Grapo launched its cartridge, detonating behind the shield-bearers, scattering the scions, knocking several off their feet. Distorted screeches were subdued by Lorne's stubber, as well as the other weapons now hitting the scions. Recognising the patient crack of the Roga, I gave a shout, seeing a scion take a round straight in the eye, putting him down instantly. _Eleven to go._ Shaking off my lightening bandolier, I went back to the Red Rifle, pouring fire in to the scion's flank. The tougher targets were, however, fully aware of where we were firing from now. With nobody at my shoulder to support me, the enemy's fire very quickly kept my head down permanently. Suppressed, I lifted my Kazalak above my head and blind-fired, wincing as shell casings struck my head. The click of the hammer dropping on the bolt carrier forced me to take my Grapo, reloading one of my three remaining cartridges. Bringing Kasabo's Tova along with my weapons, I crawled to a position further away from the stairs, closer to where Lorne was firing. The displacement gave me a quick opening to fire my grenade pistol. Again, the incoming fire pummelled me in to cover. Pieces of the wall opposite from me where being torn to slag, once in a while hot fragments reaching out to kiss my trouserlegs. At least both Lorne, Azar, Gunnel, and Izuru had kept up their output, though I could tell only by the individual reports of their weapons. With four of my seven magazines emptied, I switched back to semi, dumping the empty polymer, and setting my fifth magazine in. Edging up enough for my eyes to see over the balustrade, I recognised the distinct muzzle flash of Azar's Lecta. Gunnel too was still fighting next to him. Both were receiving fire from the scions. Lorne, manning his emplacement alone, had repulsed the scions every time they had made a play to get inside grenade range, even if the Molota was doing little, if any, damage to their armoured hides.

 _Come on, Lorne, make them answer for Borens_ , I thought. _And Cyrano_. Comforted by the bark of the Molota, I rattled off a wild flurry of .40-calibre from the Tova, achieving nothing other than getting the enemy's attention. Emptying itself in too short a time, the Tova clicked dry. Swearing, I threw the stick magazine away, glancing over at Lorne, who had withdrawn, likely also reloading. _Not good_. I ducked when the scions ramped up their fire, incinerating chunks of the balustrade around me, setting parts of the carpet on fire. Rolling over on to my front, I pushed the Red Rifle's long muzzle brake through a gap in the wall, shooting blind. Eyes flicking over the edge, I jerked back when I spotted muzzles aiming up at me, withdrawing further along the landing. Expecting this, the scions peppered the area ahead of me. Jumping up, I managed two quick taps before returning to cover. A single scion, protected by his team-mates' base of fire, was kneeling with a rocket launcher on his shoulder. Pinned, I could do nothing as the operator launched a rocket. It was not for me, rather for the stubber that was causing them so much trouble. I tried to cry out to Lorne to displace, but found my voice lost. Two puffs of grey smoke were expelled from each end of the tube, the fore-end flashing as the rocket – a white streak of light – flew at the stubber, blasting a huge, semi-circular gap, swallowing the landing in smoke and flying rubble. Silence took over, if only for a few seconds, as the scions believed the hardpoint of the enemy's resistance had fallen. A glint of green in the corner of my eye warned me of scions on the stairs. Tumbling backwards, I landed flat on my back, accidentally hitting my head on the floor, and aimed at a pair of eye lenses that were hovering near the floor, pulling the trigger, hearing a definite crack as at least one of my rounds connected with the vulnerable eye lense. A garbled cry came, and the face disappeared.

Twisting the pin from a frag grenade, I bowled it down the landing, seeing it go off on the stairs, hopefully stalling the scions before they tried again. "Lorne!" I belted around the corner, ducking low as the scions tracked me. "Lorne!"

Lorne had fallen next to his brother, the Molota resting in between them. Around the Highlanders was a garden of blood decorated with pieces of flesh, scraps of cloth, and spent casings. Taking the Molota, I passed my fingers across Lorne's eyelids, shutting them. "Give Cyrano my best," I said, grunting at the stubber's weight, sitting it down upon its bipod. The first few scions had reached Kasabo's body and were checking it over. Azar and Gunnel had gone quiet. _Were they gone too?_ A pair of flashes put wind to my question. Both men were very much in the fight, and were managing to hold their position. With the scions on the east landing distracted, I set the Molota down at the corner, giving me a cover-free lane to shoot along. Almost immediately I noticed a problem with the weapon: the barrel beyond the gas tube was bent. Shouldering, I wrapped my forefinger around the unfamiliar trigger, feeing the difference in force needed to get the weapon to fire. Punching back in to my shoulder, the Molota hit the scions, well to the right of where I was aiming, forcing me to compensate. Connecting with a weakpoint between the upper leg and the knee, a bullet tore in to a scion's leg, bringing him down. Out of the fight, the scion was pulled back, his place taken by another, who crouched boldly in the open, returning fire on me. Aiming to the left of my opponent, I could see him being hit in the torso. Only after repeated bursts did the scion withdraw, sending shots at me before he slipped away down the stairs. It happened none too soon either, as I discovered when the Molota locked up. Thinking I was out of ammunition, I pulled the magazine free, only to see brass still loaded. Confused, I pulled the bolt back to check the chamber. Inside the bore was a round that had had its primer struck but had failed to fire. _Dud round_ , I guessed, racking the bolt several times in the hope it would extract itself. No joy. Touching the warped barrel, I felt the heat rising from the steel. _This weapon's gone._

"James, move!" Azar shouted.

"Azar?"

Realising Azar had spotted something, I remembered the rocket launcher, and flung myself away from my firing position. I heard neither the whoosh, nor the resulting explosion, just a persistent ringing after an invisible wave bowled me over. Landing painfully on top of the Grapo, I crawled forwards on my belly, my face contorting. A pair of boots, appearing in front of me, spread wide as whoever it was fired back on the advancing scions. Plastered on the shoulders with three scalding shell casings, I was lifted up and dragged along by my collar.

"James, get up." Izuru plucked at the web suspenders running down my back. "Up!"

"Azar," I dimly heard the name cross my lips. A flash of a third rocket striking the top of the west stairs briefly hid the two men in smoke.

"James, no!"

Heedless of the looming threat of the scions, I pelted around to the landing, dropping down in to a crouch when two scions appeared through the smoke. Lighting up the pair, I drove back one after landing shots on his lasgun, causing it to malfunction. The other, leaping up to my level, raised his weapon, barking something I couldn't hear; only being silenced when his right eye lense disintegrated. A spray of blood blossomed out behind his head, pieces of helmet, skin, bone, and hair carpeting the wall and stairs behind him. Collapsing on to his knees, the scion keeled forwards, his right shoulder hitting the floor before he rolled on to his side. Taking cover behind the bigger man, I leant my arm across him, pulling the chunky lasgun in to position. Using the dead man's trigger-finger, I unleashed the overcharged weapon against the scion I had previously repulsed. He too went down; his own armour no match for his weapon. During the close-range exchange, Azar, blood running from his ears, sat still in fright, his spirit broken by the terror of the scions. Exploding in a profanity-charged tirade, Azar kicked at Gunnel's dead body fruitlessly.

"Gimme your hand, Olen." I let go of the scion's lasgun and stuck out my hand. "Take it!"

Crying, Azar mouthed a name at me – _Lusia_ – then took a tiny capsule from his trouser pocket.

"NO!"

Placing the pill between his teeth, Azar bit down, swallowing the pill's contents. Wriggling to me, Azar extended his arm, his hand finding mine. Squeezing it, I looked on in agony, watching as the final throes of torment wracked Azar's body with spasms. Froth foamed at his mouth. His eyes, ringed with an awful redness, begged me to run. Lasfire spattering overhead, I took Azar's Lecta and, clasping the butt underneath my arm, fired one-handed, emptying the magazine then retreating, losing the weapon once its load was expended. Too breathless to explain to Izuru that we were now alone, I let her put an arm around my waist and drag me out of the chamber. Finding her shoulder, I held on, struggling to put one foot in front of the other. Too distraught to even hold my weapon.

* * *

A scant few seconds after the last of the firing had died away, Zeleska swept in to the chamber, the hem of his cape dragging over the piles of dead Cadians, staining itself with blood. Argus at his shoulder.

"Casualties?" Zeleska glanced casually at the few scions lying among the khaki-clad Cadians.

Beckoning to the scions on the landing above, Argus waited for them to consolidate on the Inquisitor. "Scion, casualties?"

Addressing the Inquisitor, the scion bowed. "My lord, three dead. Two wounded."

"Have the Guard medicae see to the wounded. I want all confirmed killed down here, now."

"The xenos?" Argus muttered.

"Still lives." Zeleska was fully confident Izuru Numerial had escaped, at least for now. Fate would keep her in prime condition for him.

"Are you sure, my lord?" Argus stepped carefully over the bodies, responding to a call from a scion, who had found something around the far side of a large statue of a Space Marine.

"Do not doubt your Inquisitor. What have you found?" Irritated at Argus's lack of faith, Zeleska picked his way over to the wide plinth.

"Is he dead?" Argus asked the scion who was crouching next to the body of a large man with a very prominent black beard, and wearing a dirty fur cap with a tassel. The scion nodded.

"Did he fall under your guns?"

"No, my lord."

"Then what is he doing here?" Argus checked over the body, taking it by the shoulder and pulling it away from the plinth.

"Don't touch it!" Zeleska barked, stepping around the corner of the statue and pressing himself flat. The bang of the grenade was followed by a wet splatter. Opening his eyes, Zeleska drew himself around the cool stone and sighed. The victim, formerly Argus Degrelle, was on his back. A deep gash across his neck, which had ripped in to one of his jugular veins, was pouring out blood. As close to the booby trap as Argus had been, the scion's full body armour had protected him from the blast, leaving him unharmed.

Removing a glove, Zeleska wiped his face, clicking his fingers at the scion. "Bring both bodies."

Alongside Argus and the bearded man were laid five more bodies. Not one of them Zeleska recognised. Two were dressed in wool drab uniforms with no unit identification patches anywhere. One wore olive grey, and was likewise without insignia, and the other two were Cadians; men of the Imperial Logistics Corps. Of Izuru Numerial and James Larn there was no sign.

 _They have to be all that remain_ , Zeleska thought, looking the bodies up and down for any clues. The small man in olive grey had swallowed a lullaby, if the froth around his mouth was anything to go by. One of the Cadians too bore signs of suicide. The larger men in khaki drab though had gone down fighting, as had the other Cadian.

"Nothing from the xenos? The techpriestess?"

"No visual on either the xenos or techpriestess, my lord."

 _Why go all out to hold us up here?_ Zeleska pondered, pacing up and down in front of the bodies. This was linked to the foul AdMech somehow, and that bloated horror that called itself an archmagos. _What lies at the top of this tower?_

Seven of his bodyguard remained. _More than enough to bring this troublesome xenos to her knees, for that is where she will find herself. On her knees before me, begging; as all women should be._

An idea then lent itself to Zeleska. Argus was one of his subordinates, unambitious and lacking in finesse, but a loyal servant nonetheless. The commoner had no right to take the life of an inquisitorial acolyte, no more in life than he had in death, therefore he must be punished. Unsheathing his sword, Zeleska ordered the scions to roll the bearded man over on to his stomach.

* * *

The sensation of ascending many flights of stairs making me giddy, I let Izuru practically carry me, the effort near-nothing for her; she even bore the weight of our small-arms. So many times, I tried to blurt the names of those we had lost. Izuru shushed me, only helping me sit down once we were several floors above our pursuers. I had no idea how close to the summit we were now. The aisled chamber we were in, filled with tall rows of industrial machinery, venting smoke periodically, looked to be for maintenance purposes where only servitors would work. Not even the mindless drones had remained though. We were all alone.

"A little further." Izuru helped me to my feet, leading me up a thin set of iron steps to a mesh platform that branched in to separate paths above the smoke-filled aisles.

"Which way?"

"Up." Izuru pointed to a ladder that led further up in to darkness.

"Are you sure?"

"There is only one path for us to take."

"That's what I'm worried about." I clasped the stitch in my side. "Okay, put me down."

"Here." Izuru gently lowered me in to a dim alcove. "Rest a moment. Catch your breath."

Pressing the leather palm of my glove against my warm forehead, I took several deep breaths, waiting for my hammering pulse to slow. "Is that – is that all of 'em?"

Izuru removed the magazine in her rifle, testing the weight of it. "No, on both accounts. We are still in this fight. But, so are they."

"Hey…" I reached out to Izuru's face, horrified at the inch-wide slash across her cheek. This was only one of the many injuries her face had sustained. Little blood crystals ran from one of her nostrils. Her right brow was swollen, and the skin on the left side of her face had been sprayed with tiny fragments, many of which had burrowed in beneath the outer layer of skin. There was her mangled right ear too. All of this was just what her head had been put through. Her sleeves and trousers were ripped in many places. Her assault vest was very light on ammunition, now only carrying her knife and holstered Moses. Staying still, Izuru smiled as my fingers came in to contact with a tiny patch of clear skin on her cheek. "Go to Lusia."

"Nothing doing."

Removing my hand, Izuru set her Roga against the wall next to me, taking the Red Rifle for her own use. "Run to Lusia. See that she completes her task."

"Oi, what about you?" Aghast that Izuru was intending to engage the scions and the Inquisitor on her own, I took the Roga and made to follow Izuru back down a level.

"Do not." Izuru placed a hand upon my shoulder and fixed me with a piercing stare. "Do not come between an Eldar and her prey."

"Yeah, I know." I swallowed hard, staring away from her. Certain I was not about to get her to change her mind, I offered Izuru my last full magazine. "Make 'em all count."

"The same with yours." Izuru passed two of her magazines to me.

"Izuru…"

Gripping the back of my neck, Izuru drew me in and kissed my forehead. Parting from me, she spoke sharply. "Away. Away!"

With reluctance, I mounted the ladder and began to climb, the weight of my weapons gouging welts in my skin. Now that the high of combat was rapidly trickling out of my system, I could feel the many little pains in my arms and legs, though superficial, hurting. But, nothing was broken or out of place. That was some consolation.

Very soon crawling through vents, I spotted shafts of weak light shining through a grill. Hoping the thin steel wasn't welded in place, I raised my shoulders and pushed upwards, feeling the plate lift free. Rain began to patter on the crown of my beret, soaking the wool through. With nothing but the overcast, late-afternoon sky above my head, I realised this was the summit of Tleilax.

"Lusia?" I called, taking the warm steel of the Roga in to my hands and tracking the muzzle across the surrounding structures.

"Is that you, James?" Lusia called. "I am up here."

Heading up two flights of rain-slicked steps, I gaped at the colossal machine Lusia was standing in front of. Wires and cables, numbering in the hundreds extended up the shaft of what was, unmistakably, one of the strange pylons I had seen during the retreat to Kraf. The entirety of Tleilax Tower was built around this alien construct, with only the very tip of the pylon visible. This was where Lusia was working on whatever the Archmagos was planning.

"Impressive, do you not think?" Lusia did not turn around when I approached. Checking behind, I saw a central square below me with another broad statue, this one an ancient Imperial official wearing hooded robes. Stained-glass windows looked out on the summit, telling tales of long-dead Imperial heroes smiting the likes of Chaos, the Greenskins, and mechanical horrors. High Gothic inscriptions were etched on plaques below the windows. All indecipherable to me.

"James, where is Cyrano. Olen?"

Lusia had paused in her calibrations and was looking at me, awaiting an explanation. Giving a silent shake of my head, I broke eye contact and moved away.

"He was not a bad man, your Olen Azar," Lusia said quietly.

"He was a cook," I replied, my voice straining. "Nothing bad nor good about it."

"And your woman?"

"She's not mine."

"But you are join-ed, are you not?"

"What's – what all this then?" I pointed a limp finger at the machine. "You hacking the pylon or something?"

"Waiting for confirmation from the Archmagos. He has still to complete the nodal link on his end."

"Nodal?"

"There exists a ring of pylons around the Elysion Fields. It was the Archmagos's wish that the network be activated."

"Why?"

"The Archmagos commanded it."

"That's not a reason."

"I am not at liberty to question the Archmagos's motives."

"Are you talking to him now?"

"In Lingua-technis…" Lusia paused. "Binary."

Not knowing, not caring, I gave Lusia a blank look.

"I'm sorry. Sorry for all you have lost." Lusia removed a hand from the wiring she had buried her appendages in, offering it to me.

Ignoring it, I grunted, "Just… make something of it."

Glancing nervously at the sealed door on the other side of the roof, I added. "Fast."

"Have patience—"

"You got a way off this roof?"

"Once the operation is completed—"

"Now."

"A service lift for drones. Discreet. It will take you underground."

"The shuttle…"

"No battle plan survives contact with the enemy. I forget the origin…"

"Can you get us a ship or not?"

"Not from here."

"But can you do it?"

"Wait and see."

* * *

 _Five men down. Seven standing. Easy odds. Too easy for me._ Osvat Radu Zeleska enjoyed a challenge. So far, this xenos had not provided him with sufficient stimulation. He was disappointed. The bodies beneath him were insignificant. Little people living pathetic little existences. Not worth his time. In the tight, choking confines of the maintenance levels just below the summit, Zeleska heard a woman's scream, far away, yet distinctly audible.

"Freeze," he ordered. In front of and behind him, the scions froze. Smoke whistled from vents in the floor, wafting Zeleska's cape around. The scream came again. A twinge of nervousness tickled Zeleska. From the brief moment he had spent with Izuru Numerial, he had been intrigued, amused, and aroused. Now he was feeling fear. Such spirit did not deserve to be ended by bolt or blade.

High-pitched laughter, coming from a different direction, brought the scion's hotshot lasguns around sharply.

"Thermals," Zeleska said.

"Contact. Ceiling. My twelve." A scion trained his weapon on a point far above him, letting off a shot.

"Cease fire! Acquire positive identification first," Zeleska shouted.

"The xenos is dangerous, my lord."

"Alive. Unspoiled. Heed my orders."

Realising he had made an error, Zeleska signalled the scions to increase their dispersion. "Shock batons only."

Keeping a scion on both flanks, Zeleska unsheathed his power sword. Forbidding the scions to simply shoot Izuru Numerial placed a significant handicap on them, something Zeleska was forced to concede to if he wanted her alive. _The offer still stands_ , he said to himself, reciting what he would say to her when they met. _I offer you freedom, safety, and a purpose. Give me the techpriestess, and you and James shall be spared my wrath._ Of course, the boy was of no interest to Zeleska. The lie would have to suffice, if he wanted the xenos to willingly join his retinue. Perhaps he might even spare the boy the fall from the summit, and put a bolt in his brain. A merciful act. But Zeleska was not feeling particularly merciful, not after the traitors had cheated, using one of their own to kill Argus. He wanted to see the techpriestess in pieces.

"Stay within visual range," he muttered, glancing up at the torch-beams playing across the black depths above. A clatter – the clang of metal-on-metal – sounded. _Psychological warfare. Clever._

Zeleska's ears pricked up when he heard the swish of a blade. From behind, a scion gave a yelp of pain.

"Contact," another said.

"Where?" Zeleska signalled the scions to form up, making a perimeter around the scion that had fallen. "Scion, where did she go?"

"I did not see her," the wounded scion, down on one knee, replied. "Slice across the back of the left knee. Tore a ligament."

"Contact, my nine!"

"Hold your fire!" Zeleska held up a hand for quiet.

"Shadow crossed my field of view. The xenos is on our level."

"Move in."

Leaving two scions to protect the wounded man, Zeleska padded down a narrow aisle, two scions covering him, the other two searching the adjacent path. Blinded by the smoke, Zeleska spun when the scion behind him shouted out. Collapsing, the scion grabbed at his leg. The gap between his armour plate was pouring blood. "My leg!"

"Check the gaps underneath!" Zeleska swooped down to the gap the scion had been stabbed through, privately damning the smoke obscuring his sight. "Anything on thermals?"

"Contact. Above!"

A shadow, leaping the gap above, turned Zeleska's head. "I have her."

Tapping the scion in front, Zeleska ordered him to help the wounded man back to where the other casualty was, leaving him alone. Before he could rejoin the two scions in the adjacent aisle, Zeleska heard a sharp rattle of an automatic weapon, followed by a scion's scream. The notion that the xenos might prove too difficult to sway, or even subdue, irked him. _Don't make this hard on yourself_ , he thought, drawing his bolt pistol, quite ready to place a bolt in the xenos's leg to take her down.

"Where?" Zeleska snarled at the lone scion – the survivor of the pair he had sent out by themselves.

"The xenos fired on us from above, my lord."

"Come with me."

Fuming at the guerrilla-like manner in which she was attacking, Zeleska refused to admit that he and his men were now being hunted by the solitary xenos, as opposed to him hunting her. This was not how it was supposed to play out. Reaching the two wounded scions, and the three protecting them, Zeleska ordered the wounded to be jacked up by stimulants and then to follow the others under their own power. "Move, hurry! Where is…?" He thought he had miscounted. With the two wounded were three others. The single scion he had ordered to follow him was missing. _Damn you, xenos._ And he hadn't heard a sound this time. Hastily ordering the scions to displace, Zeleska led them towards an open space, bordered by a railing on two sides, and lit up by many shafts of light that filtered down from a skylight far above. There would be no shadows for her to hide in there.

"Face outwards. Keep one another in view," Zeleska ordered, squinting up at the strips of light he could see through the dirty glass. Chains hung from the ceiling, some of them gently clinking against one another. Sensing the xenos relocating, Zeleska allowed the scions to assist their two injured team-mates, binding their leg wounds in dressings. "Be vigilant, troopers."

"Contact!" A scion raised his hot-shot lasgun, aiming it high. "I have a visual on the xenos."

"Hold." Zeleska watched, quite in awe, as a blurry shape dropped from a walkway, slamming on to the grating, shaking it. In person, Izuru Numerial straightened up from her crouch, all six foot plus of xenos terror, clad in black. The very black Zeleska had given to her as a gift in fact. More remarkable was the extent of her injuries. They did nothing to mar her beauty, which still shone from underneath the blood, grime, and sweat coating her face.

At once, the five scions rushed to put themselves between the Inquisitor and the enemy, aiming their weapons at her. Izuru Numerial carried no weapons in her hands, though it was not to say that she wasn't heavily armed; she was. Zeleska took note of a slung autogun, an AdMech-forged sword, long enough to rival his, a xenos-crafted knife, and a stub pistol holstered on her vest. Amusingly it was little more than a peashooter.

Zeleska placed hands on the shoulders of two scions he stepped between, moving to lower their weapons. Obeying his command, the other three did the same. Their elevated breathing gave Zeleska insight as to how scared they were of this xenos. He had been the same, not a moment before.

"Please. My offer still stands. I would not see you broken and beaten as you would be if you continue this struggle. Come, my dear." Zeleska tugged off a glove and offered her his hand, smiling invitingly. "You need not fear. No harm will come to your or James Larn. I am here for the techpriestess. Her masters informed me of her treason. And there is nothing more dangerous than a machine gone rogue. I offer you freedom, safety, and purpose. Give me the techpriestess, and you and James will be spared the Inquisition's wrath."

As a precaution, Zeleska signalled discreetly for the scion that carried the microcharges in a bag to dispense of them. Quietly, the scion removed the bag from his shoulder and kicked it behind him. Taking a small step closer, Zeleska met Izuru's eyes, carefully keeping his own fixed on her, with neither a flicker nor a deviation that might betray his apprehension. "These men obey my every word. You need not fear them."

Something was off about her, Zeleska realised. The xenos had not quite met his eyes, and was, instead, staring at a point just underneath his chin, around his collar. As if all her mental faculties were switched off, she was, quite simply, not there. Reasoning with her was folly.

"Stun batons!" Zeleska leapt back.

Five batons were drawn. Advancing in line together, the scions gradually formed a semi-circle around Izuru, who was frozen in place. Observing, Zeleska noticed a subtle shift in her stance. She had not made the slightest play for any of her weapons, leaving her hands bare. _Throne, she fights unarmed!_

The collective lunge – all five batons seeking xenos flesh – struck nothing, the heads crackling with unused energy. Expecting Izuru to attack, Zeleska watched, once more in awe, as she let the scions close the gap again. Slicing wrists aside, Izuru grabbed a scion and, despite the considerable weight of the man, spun him around, using the momentum to throw him to the floor where, pinning his arm straight, Izuru broke his wrist, acquiring the baton and, without pause, held it pointing downwards across her back, protecting it from an incoming lunge. Dancing away from the wounded scion, Izuru was chased by the only two unwounded scions. _Clever, targeting the able-bodied first_ , Zeleska remarked. He felt like applauding her.

Armed now with the shock baton, Izuru assumed an approximation of a fencing stance, casually flicking aside first one then the other baton, using one to electrocute a scion in the neck. Knowing the protective carapace suits were quite resilient to sudden discharges, Zeleska grinned. _Nice try_.

"Good." He laughed when the very tip of a baton brushed Izuru's side, making her cry out. The scion responsible, quick to sense the opening, was then leapt on by Izuru, who wrapped her legs around his head, her weight forcing him down on to his back. Jabbing an incoming scion in the groin with the baton, again useless, Izuru yanked her stub pistol out, pressed it to the scion's eye lense, and fired point-blank. Even at spitting distance, a peashooter could still be lethal.

 _Four_. Zeleska counted, leaning against the railing and folding his arms. Surrounded, Izuru rolled with the dead scion, ending up with him on top, taking the lunges intended for her. _Very clever_ , Zeleska chuckled. _Unsporting, but clever_. Now getting a grip on the scion's hot-shot lasgun, Izuru pressed the dead man's forefinger down, splitting a scion's torso in half with a rapid volley. _Three_. Slowed by the weight of the scion, Izuru found her feet and faced the three, barely catching the probing batons before they could deliver the full shock. Even then, being grazed by them was still incredibly painful. _Throne, she has to go down. Once does not takes several thousand volts and just shrug it off._

Marvelling that Izuru was continually forgoing the use of her own weapons, Zeleska nodded in approval when Izuru bowled underneath a scion and threw the man over her shoulder. Landing hard on his back, the man lay dazed, leaving Izuru with only two opponents. Izuru aimed a kick against the scion's eye lenses which he batted aside. Spinning, faster than Zeleska believed possible, Izuru kicked the scion hard across his eyes, performing a flawless Roundhouse that cracked one of the lenses then propelling him back in to a team mate.

" _Marvellous_." Zeleska began to clap.

A slight blunder on the xenos's behalf saw her grab a baton by the head accidentally. Shrieking through clenched teeth, she rammed her palm against her assailant's elbow, snapping it. Even through the vocal scrambler, Zeleska could hear the howl of agony. Only once every scion was down, did Izuru look Zeleska in the eye. Continuing his applause, Zeleska paced nonchalantly to the explosive-filled bag the scion had left. "Sad," he said, releasing the chain holding his cape around his shoulders, and letting it fall behind him. "Sad to see such skill, such spirit wasted. T'was a shame. We had barely got to know one another."

Glancing at Izuru, he flashed a smile. Sadly, negotiation was over. He had not wanted to show her what was inside the bag, but her arrogance was boundless. "Look at what you did," he said, feigning regret as he reached inside, taking the head of Argus's killer by the beard and tossing it towards Izuru. The blankness of her expression, entirely devoid of hatred, pain, or sorrow, fell away when, tearing her sword from her sheathe, Izuru uttered a guttural scream, the sheer edge of it prickling Zeleska's skin. Flourishing her sword, Izuru drew back her teeth, maddened at the sight of her friend's severed head. This time she did not wait for her enemy to come to her, rather she released herself from whatever handicaps she had imposed upon herself. Striding at Zeleska, Izuru drew her stub pistol and fired twice, the slugs mere slaps across Zeleska's chest. Unsheathing his own sword, Zeleska waggled a finger. "Let's not spoil this. I have been waiting—"

Izuru swung a bull-headed blow at Zeleska's head, cutting him off altogether. Parrying, Zeleska immediately backpedalled, turning around to give himself more room to manoeuvre. "Such strength, such skill, such beauty. Why squander it on these vagrants. These Neanderthals?" Zeleska spat, deflecting a swipe to at his knee. "I can offer you the galaxy. What more can I give?"

The roar Izuru gave startled Zeleska enough that it silenced him completely, forcing him to concentrate entirely on remaining on his feet as he was driven backwards by Izuru's aggressive and repeated slashes and jabs, shunting him away from his downed bodyguards, and in to darkness, where Zeleska could only tell where she was by the glow of her eyes, which never left him. Locking blades, Zeleska dug his heels in to stop himself from being launched backwards, fighting hard to maintain his footing, his face inches from the enraged xenos. "We can tear at each other like dogs, or we can discuss matters in civilisation—"

Bringing her head forwards, Izuru struck the bridge of Zeleska's nose with her forehead, fracturing the soft bone and shoving Zeleska back. Feeling two thin trickles of blood ran down either side of his nose, Zeleska laughed. "And what civilisation is there for the dying Eldar? Torment eternal!"

Running up a set of stairs, Zeleska found room to catch his breath, for the xenos did not rush to pursue him. Awaiting Izuru, Zeleska checked around him. By his reckoning he was close to top of the tower, and the elusive techpriestess. Shrouded in darkness, the platform he was standing on appeared to be fitted to rails, and could ascend to the summit without detour. _Where…?_

A clink of iron chains betrayed the xenos's movements. Whirling to face the slippery shadow, Zeleska received a boot to the face, as Izuru swung in to him, putting him on his back. Struggling like a wild animal, Zeleska felt Izuru clawing her way up him, her fingers searching for his throat. Getting a leg against his throat, Izuru pressed down, rough, broken fingernails clawing at Zeleska's eyes. Zeleska's scrabbling fingers found the hilt of a shiv he kept inside his boot, drew the blade and stabbed it in to Izuru's back, plunging it beneath the material of her vest, working it deeper through her jacket and skin. Beating the arm away, Izuru howled as Zeleska put a knee up in to her groin, the pressure on his neck subsiding; his vision returning. Kicking her off, Zeleska was first on his feet, balled fists aiming at Izuru's face. Still on her knees, Izuru raised her forearms in front of her, taking the brunt of the blows, baiting Zeleska to switch to her torso. Pummelling her furiously, Zeleska strained to keep Izuru down, aware even he was no match for her in a fair fight; so, it would be dirty tactics from now on. Of the same mind, Izuru had her ornate knife out in a flash, and lunged at Zeleska, who grabbed her hand, pinning it underneath his arm, jerking downwards, wrenching the knife from Izuru's grasp, jabbing her underneath her chin simultaneously. As he did so, Izuru managed to grab Zeleska's hand, and twisted it around by the wrist. A slow groan escaping him, Zeleska rode with it, as Izuru applied twisted it further and further until, on the verge of dislocation, Zeleska leapt, somersaulting in the air, breaking free of the hold, swiping the feet out from underneath her when he landed. Colliding with coiled chains, Izuru's blindingly fast movements were stalled. Whirling a loose chain around above his head, Zeleska threw it around Izuru's neck, jerking the free end, lifting her off her feet. Spit flying from her mouth, Izuru dug her fingers in to the cold metal, her cheeks bulging. About to hit her in the stomach, Zeleska was spun around by Izuru's boot smacking him in the forehead. Snorting up blood from where it ran freely down his lips and chin, Zeleska ran at Izuru, punching her again and again in her belly, further employing his holdout weapon, a single-shot pistol, chambered in .32-calibre, fixed to the inside of his gauntlet. The harsh bang gave Zeleska satisfaction, even moreso when Izuru screamed at the wound in her belly. Livid, Izuru made to kick at Zeleska again, wrapping her legs around his head, bringing his own feet off the floor as she tried to strangle him. Once more losing focus, Zeleska undid the flap of his holster, drawing his bolt pistol, trying to aim the heavy sidearm upwards. In the end, not caring what he was aiming at, Zeleska fired blind. The subsequent boom, echoing throughout the tower's uppermost floors was followed by the shriek of a ricochet, and the cry of the xenos. Believing she had been hit by the ricochet, Zeleska struggled with freeing himself from Izuru's thighs. Still she did not relent. _Throne, she's taking me with her!_ Plaintively, Zeleska beat at Izuru, feeling his strength ebb.

* * *

The pain Izuru felt was surpassed only by the apoplectic hatred she had for the Inquisitor, and all who wore the gold letter I. Feral grunts, the likes of which she had never heard come from her mouth before, were spat out each time she gave a twist of her captive's neck. When sure he was dead, Izuru let the body fall before working at the chains that had bound her. Finding air again, Izuru landed ignominiously, coughing and dry-heaving on her hands and knees.

"…James. James," she croaked, massaging her throat. Slipping a hand underneath her shirt, Izuru felt the gunshot wound, and the wetness around it, moaning at the punch of the slug, which was now embedded inside her. Giving the Inquisitor a baleful glare, Izuru picked herself up, removing the sling of James's rifle from where she had slung it across her back. With the wobbly legs of a newborn child, Izuru shuffled over to the lift's controls, squeezing the lever attached to the crank then standing back as the motor turned over.

 _This is for Keladi._ Izuru checked the autogun's chamber, fully intending to place a round between Zeleska's eyes then do to him what he had done to Cyrano. _Cyrano, dear friend of mine._ Hot tears began to well up. Cyrano had not deserved that injustice. Shaking her head in grief-stricken anger, Izuru wheeled about to face Zeleska, raising the Kazalak to shoot. A gauntlet flashed, grasping the rifle's muzzle brake and diverting it away. Screeching at the bruised and bloodied Inquisitor, who was back on his feet, Izuru pressed the trigger, running through the half-empty magazine. The flash was supressed by the tight hold the Inquisitor had on the end of the barrel. However, the heat from the gasses escaping the vent holes burned through the thick material of his gauntlet, scalding his hand. Letting go of the empty rifle, Izuru struck Zeleska's nose with her palm, driving him away.

"Did you find my gift pleasing?" Zeleska laughed, scooping up his power sword from where it lay. "James will be next."

Not even bothering to recover her sword or rifle, Izuru bellowed incoherently, rushing headlong at the Inquisitor, catching his forearm and ducking underneath the swing. Her fingers around the grip, Izuru swung the sword – still in Zeleska's hand – against the rusted iron rail, ramming it hard enough to break his hold. Spiralling down into darkness, the sword was lost. Stamping downwards, Zeleska tried to crush Izuru's toes, squirming in her brutal hold. Channelling every ounce of her warrior spirit, Izuru gained control over Zeleska, chopping his neck with the inside of her forearm. Then, grabbing the back of his head, Izuru slammed Zeleska's face down on the iron railing, seething at his astounding resilience. Again, trying for his neck, Izuru clasped something metal on Zeleska's breast and ripped if off; the Rosarius. Both boots pushing off from the wall, Zeleska carried Izuru back with him, the combatants landing one on top of the other. His back pressing in to Izuru, Zeleska ran his elbow backwards, sinking it in to Izuru's side. Throwing him off, Izuru sprung forward, kicking off from the floor, regaining her feet. The Inquisitor was in the motion of picking up his bolt pistol and bringing the fat muzzle around to point at Izuru. Swatting it aside, Izuru found Zeleska's neck and landed a kick to the back of his knee. As Zeleska's hands scrabbled for Izuru's groin, she threw him in a rough cartwheel, ending up with him on his back, and unarmed. Falling on to his chest, Izuru drove a knee in to Zeleska's larynx, following up with punch after punch, all aimed at his face. She would beat every last trace of James out of that handsome, boyish face. _Every last trace_ , she thought murderously, delighting at the blood she drew.

* * *

The Red Rifle's distinct report I recognised instantly, coming from inside the tower and a few floors below; the echo rolling up to me from an open vent.

"Hurry, Lusia!"

"Be patient, James," Lusia snapped. "The Archmagos is not one to be rushed."

Slinging the Roga across my front, I stepped over to the machine. "What can I do?"

"Exactly as I say: that is, protect me. All that is required now is for me to fuse the circuits. This is the tallest pylon on Cadia, the Archmagos needs it active. They are anti-psychic field emitters—"

"I don't care what they do, Lusia, just make sure our exit's open."

"Once active, they will—"

"Oi, quiet!" I raised a finger, scuttling over to a low wall. A clang from inside the main door was followed by the groan of the halves parting. Two torch-beams sliced through the gap, behind them a pair of scions prowled forwards.

"Shit. Lusia, company!" I whispered. "Scions."

"How many?" Lusia did not retreat from the machine or even lower her posture.

"Two – get down from the machine!"

"Impossible. To disconnect now—"

"Ssh!" Setting the Roga's safety, I edged across to a gap in the wall, pushing the Roga's muzzle through and placing my eye to the optic's red lense. Observing the two scions through the thin cross-hairs, I placed the red dot on the leftmost scion's forehead.

"James, shoot!" Lusia whispered.

Blinded by the torches sweeping over me, I shook my head. "They don't know we're here."

"They know we are up here somewhere. Engage them before they engage us. I cannot help."

Afraid of the scion's near-impenetrable body armour, I balked at opening fire. I was not at all familiar with how the Roga handled, and was worried the sights were not zeroed to my eye. Izuru using it right-handed further unsettled me. If I missed, the two scions would roll up on my position, flank me, and waste me with grenades.

"James."

"Shut up, Lusia."

"The window!"

Baffled as to what Lusia meant, I caught a glimpse of a pair of shadows come hurtling out of one of the stained-glass windows, scattering glass shards everywhere. Their attention diverted, the scions made for the pair as they landed together on a carpet of glass.

"Inquisitor!" one shouted. Both were frozen, aiming their hot-shot lasguns at Izuru, who was locked in a deadly embrace with none other than the Inquisitor.

"Oh shit. It's him." I gasped, my aim shaking. "Lusia, it's him."

"Shoot him, James!"

Too afraid of hitting Izuru, I moved my sights across to the nearest scion, settling on the side of his head. Testing the slack on the trigger, I squeezed gently. Bucking against my shoulder with far greater force than the Red Rifle, the Roga barked. Taking the shot square on his shoulder guard, the scion brought his lasgun around, roaring something incoherent.

"Kill the boy!" Zeleska shrieked, striking the prone Izuru with an elbow.

Strafing to the left and right, the scions split up, sending snap-shots up at me as both manoeuvred.

"Lusia, help!" Stealing a look at the Inquisitor and Izuru, I tried to line up on the Inquisitor's bloodied face and send a warning shot in his direction. The constant harrying from the scions jarred my aim, forcing me to duck back in to cover. Switching to the Grapo, I laid a 40-millimetre round behind where one of the scions had taken cover. The explosion did nothing but attract fire. _Useless_. I dumped the launcher and bandolier; the scion's armour was too thick.

"James, take this." Lusia tossed her plasma pistol to me. With both hands cradling the Roga, I missed the weapon as it slapped on the wet surface, skidding past me. Sticking out my boot, I pulled the bulky pistol to me, setting the Roga aside.

"James, cover me!"

Particle beams were now cracking the surface of the pylon, bathing Lusia in molten fragments. With the plasma pistol in hand, I crawled along the end of the curving wall, leaning out, waiting for the glowing green lenses. Both scions had switched off their torches.

"Shit, where are you?" I tried aiming the plasma pistol at the Inquisitor. The complete lack of sights, a basic blade or aperture, gave me no idea where the shots would land; Izuru was too close to him for me to even consider shooting. On the edge of breaking cover, I caught a flash of green and fired instinctively, scooting away from the shadow of the scion. Pretending to displace, I doubled back, firing blindly over the wall then switching positions, moving past Lusia, blasting away at the scion flanking me from the left, sending scores of plasma bolts at the scion.

"Watch the heat!" Lusia shouted.

"What?" I heard a growing whine and looked down at the cooling coils. In place of the calm blue, a dazzling white was building.

"Throw it!"

Unaware of the dangerous build-up of heat, I took one look at the incoming scion, drew back my arm, and hurled the overheating pistol at him. Bursting in a brilliant cloud of blue light, the exploding pistol incinerated the scion's armour, boiling the outer layers inwards, melting it against his flesh. Dropping to the ground, the scion lay still. About to run to him for his weapon, I yelped when the second scion fired on me. Groaning at the intense heat of the particle beams brushing me, I crawled back up to Lusia. "Lusia, you'd better get this done soon," I hissed.

"The Archmagos is almost done – argh!" Lusia's knees buckled. Shots from the scion seared across her back, blowing holes in her body.

"Lusia, you alright?" I cried.

"Beware!" An armed grenade came sailing over my head, striking Lusia on the hip.

"Got it." I lunged for the bomb, the red digits on it rapidly counting down, got ahold of it and threw it back at the scion. Crawling to the Roga, I sat against the wall, waiting for the grenade to go off. Seeing it fly over my head and land at Lusia's feet brought both our gazes up to one another. Even with the artificial face, I could see the fear in Lusia's eyes. In an instant she had the grenade tucked in to her bosom. Turning away from me, Lusia hunched over, smothering the blast. Bellying forwards, dragging the Roga beside me, I squatted at the corner, holding the Roga right-handed, leaning outwards on my shoulder. I spotted the lone scion advancing cautiously up the steps. Not hesitating, I pumped the trigger, heedless of the vicious kick the rifle gave. Expending the thick casings, one after the other, the Roga's cartridges knocked all hell out of the scion's carapace, battering the armour. Only relenting when the rifle clicked empty, I swore, drawing my Volg. The scion was still up. Hearing me run out of ammunition, he stomped up the steps, closing in on my hiding place. Swearing under my breath, I looked at Lusia, hoping, praying she wasn't dead. Izuru screaming snapped me out of the impotence that had frozen me in place. Only the scion and the Inquisitor lay between me and her now.

" _Come on. Come on_ ," I breathed, hearing the deafening thump of blood in my head. _Do it. Go now!_ Picturing Izuru's face, I tossed a loose cartridge over my head. The scion paused, turning his lasgun on the area where he had heard the noise and saturating it with particle beams. Hearing the distraction work, I barrelled out of cover, in to the rain, making the distance between myself and the scion, jumping the last few steps. Swinging his lasgun around, the scion gave a garbled shout. Colliding with the much bigger man, I felt the lasgun's muzzle smack me in the side, and the heat if gave off. Jamming it underneath my arm, I thrust my Volg at the scion's eye lense, and fired. I did not stop firing until the Volg locked empty. The back of his head blown outwards by the storm of .45's, the scion crumpled, his weight trapping me underneath.

"Izuru!" I bawled, attracting the Inquisitor's attention. Striking Izuru backhanded, Zeleska brought his bolt pistol up and fired at me. Slamming in to the carapace, the bolt exploded. Zeleska was prevented delivering a follow-up shot by Izuru, who grappled with him for control of the bolt pistol, clocking him with the butt. Near-tottering on her feet, Izuru's strength was fast deserting her. Dropping my empty Volg, I back-tracked to where I had left the Roga, loading my last magazine.

"C'mon, Izuru, move!" I whispered, placing my wavering sights on the Inquisitor's back, only for Izuru to dart across them. Shivering in the wet, I ducked as a pair of white floodlights shone down on the summit. The same Valkyrie from before reappeared. This time, it's troop bay was open. Seeing a crewman toss a rope down to the Inquisitor, I fired a round up at him. Darting back from the ramp, the crewman disappeared. From where I was, neither of the door guns could depress low enough to hit me. In my defilade, I switched the Roga to automatic, lying on my back and aiming up at the fuel tank in the wing. Unleashing the heavy slugs on the armour-plating, I watched as aircraft fuel began to leak from the damaged pipes. Warned about the ground fire, the pilot nudged his craft to starboard. Aware of the 25-millimetre door gun's traversing muzzle, I ran with the Valkyrie, preventing the bolter from finding an angle. A dull click from the Roga let me know I was out of ammunition. Not just for the rifle; for everything. Once more in possession of his bolt pistol, Zeleska screamed something at me, lost over the noise, and shot at me. With so much blood covering his face, Zeleska missed. He did not need to even hit me to keep me away. I was helpless where I was. Shouting Izuru's name, I lurched down to the dead scion. Zeleska, finding the rope, had Izuru in a headlock. As bloody as her enemy, Izuru punched her elbow behind her. When this proved fruitless, her clawed hands tore at Zeleska's face. I was at the scion at the same time Zeleska was carried upwards towards the waiting dropship. Howling in anguish, I took up the scion's hot-shot lasgun and unloaded on the ruptured fuel lines, causing the port wing to burst in to flame. Wobbling, the Valkyrie began pulling away, the wash rolling over me like an invisible wave, forcing me to my knees.

"IZURU!" I wailed, tears and rainwater spilling down my face. Watching the Valkyrie rise in to the air, I caught a flash from one of the storm clouds that were covering Kraf. A jagged finger – lightning – speared the Valkyrie. Dismayed at the freak occurrence, I saw the nose buckle, as if a giant fist was crushing it. An explosion from the cockpit flung Izuru and the Inquisitor down the ramp, both rolling to the very edge and falling forty feet.

" _No_ ," I whispered. Dropping the lasgun, I rushed over to where Izuru had fallen. A figure rose out of the corner of my eye, adopting the posture of a hunchback. "No more games, James," the Inquisitor said, staggering towards Izuru like a drunk. Limply he raised his bolt pistol, letting off a drunken shot. Falling out of Zeleska's sight, I covered my ears as the shells detonated above my head. "Izuru. Izuru, wake up!"

Near to unconsciousness, Izuru found her Moses, still holstered on her chest, and attempted to draw it. Her shaking hand, too weak to aim, pressed the pistol to the floor. Rolling on to her side, Izuru slid the Moses across the floor to me. Snatching at the wet wooden grips, I ejected the magazine. The steel, normally holding double-stacked brass, was empty. "Fuck!" I pushed the empty magazine back in, easing the slide backwards. A round stared up at me from the chamber. All I had left. Rising to face the Inquisitor, I straightened my arm, lining up the front and rear sights on the nightmarish face. "Keladi." I squeezed. Blowing a red hole in the Inquisitor's forehead, the slug burying itself, jerking the monster's head back. Crumpling, Zeleska dropped, hitting the ground bodily. Aiming the Moses at the body, I began to lower it, pulling the trigger once more, forgetting I had used my last round. Turning the Moses towards myself, I saw a tiny wisp of smoke rise from the open chamber. _It's over_.

"Izuru." I knelt over her, taking her cold hand in mine. "Izuru?" Foul-smelling aircraft fuel, a brownish-yellow, coated Izuru's face. "Please. _Please_." I shook my canteen. Water sloshed around inside. Quickly unscrewing the cap, I poured the entire contents over Izuru's head. Running inside her mouth, Izuru's promptly began coughing it up. "There." I wiped my sleeve across her face, clearing away the worst of the filth. Wriggling, Izuru opened her eyes a crack, moaning softly. "I thought I was blind," she panted.

"Thought I'd lost you." Smiling happily, I stroked her cheek, carefully avoiding the curving gash that had split her skin.

"Lusia?"

"No, no, you first. You first!" Putting a hand behind her, I lifted Izuru in to a sitting position. Gasping, her hand flew to her belly. "Attend to Lusia."

"Number ten. Nothing doing," I said adamantly. "Hey, you're alright. You're alright." I slapped her cheek lightly. "Nothin' but cuts and bruises, eh?"

"…Behind you," Izuru murmured.

Fear welling in my gut, I heard a squeak of wet leather. Eyes widening, I shrunk back as, against all probability, the Inquisitor clambered to his feet, a dull-eyed, shell-shocked expression plastered beneath the hideous mess his face had become. Drawing a shiv from behind, Zeleska swayed as a drunk might, pointing the blade at me like a gun. Getting hands underneath Izuru's armpits, I dragged Izuru back, flagging under her weight. As I inched back, Zeleska inched forwards, a widening smile showing broken, bloody teeth underneath wet lips.

"Izuru, help me!" I cried. "Lusia!"

The spearpoint coming towards me, I raised my hand in front of my face, not caring about the pointlessness of it. _How can he still be on his feet?_

"Excommunicate traitoris…" Zeleska gurgled.

Shutting my eyes, I heard a wet smack, and the puncturing of organs. Standing, almost at attention, Zeleska's mouth opened, blood dribbling down his lips. A green spear head was poking out of his chest, now shining with blood. The wielder of the staff, her scaled cape spreading like wings, ripped the staff from Zeleska's body. The being that had once been abused by the Inquisitor now soared over his head, landing in front of Zeleska, who was still on his feet. "Oh, dearest, how I have missed you." Shesmet tipped Zeleska's chin up, squeezing the lacerated flesh within her hand. "Don't you remember me?"

His jaw quivering, Zeleska's voice rose to a screaming pitch. Weeping tears of blood, he met Shesmet's eyes, quite helpless in her embrace, as she had been in his once. Cowering under Shesmet, I shielded Izuru, not wanting to look at the once-victim and abuser. Laughing, Shesmet carried Zeleska up in to the sky with her. "Are you afraid?" she asked, before a burst of green light made them vanish from existence.

Soaked and freezing, I looked around the tower roof, being overcome with violent shivers that wracked my entire body. Finding my hand, Izuru squeezed. "Are you hurt?"

"Don't matter." I got up, wincing at a painful twinge in my back. "Come on."

Taking Izuru's hand, I dragged it across my shoulders, hoisting her upright. Moaning through gritted teeth, Izuru let her head slump against me.

"Lusia?" I called. "Lusia?"

Lusia's broken body lay in pieces at the foot of the psychic field emitter. The machine itself, protected from the blast by Lusia, hummed expectantly.

"No." Izuru's mouth fell open. "Oh, Lusia."

All previous enmity gone, Izuru wept.

"Putting you down. It's okay, I'm just going over there," I whispered, sitting Izuru against the spot beneath the wall where I had hidden from the scions. Taking the Moses from my cartridge belt, I released the slide and tucked it inside my empty holster. "Lusia? C'mon, talk to me." I got down on my hands and knees, turning over the severed upper half of Lusia's torso. "Hey, thought you'd come a cropper."

"That scion knew how to count." Lusia smiled, her voice faint. "Is it done?"

"Done on our end, yeah."

"Izuru?"

"She's just over there. She's fine, Lusia. She's fine."

"Help me up."

Hoisting the bulk of Lusia up in to my arms, I turned her around to see Izuru. "She's there."

"I meant not to come between the two of you. I humbly apologise."

Her face cracking up, Izuru smiled.

"Alright, get this bloody thing firing now." I helped Lusia to the machine. "Just joining wires, yeah?"

Extending a finger, Lusia touched two loose ends, bringing them together, sealing the naked wires. Then, placing her palm on the screen of a cogitator, Lusia commanded me to pull down on a lever, as she did likewise with an identical affair. "Ready?"

"Yeah."

"Now."

Dragging the lever downwards I was bid by Lusia to step back. A rumble preceded a bright beam of black light, firing upwards in to the sky, disappearing in to the clouds. It was quite unlike anything I had expected to happen, enough to make me shrink in alarm and cover my eyes at the harsh light.

"The Archmagos thanks us," Lusia said.

Rubbing my aching eyes, I carried Lusia back from the emitter. "I'll carry you out…"

"You cannot bear Izuru and I by yourself. Let me…"

"What you doing?" Letting Lusia down, I leant closer when Lusia beckoned to me.

"Let me give you my core. I diverted a shuttle of ours to a landing pad on the eastern side of the tower. Insert me in to the shuttle's systems and I will fly you out."

"But… your body."

"Useless to me now," she whispered. "Please, kiss me."

"Thank you for your help, Andalusia." My lips touched her forehead. "For everything."

"Thank Olen for me." The light in Lusia's eyes began to fade. "Another body. Another life…"

Watching the green orbs dim to nothing, I bowed my head in sadness. _Poor Lusia, Olen, Cyrano, Lorne, Borens; the lot of them. God, I hope this was worth it._

Taking the cylindrical core from Lusia's torso, I tucked it inside a flattened ammunition pouch and closed the flap. "What?" I put my ear to Izuru's mouth.

" _Take me home_."

"Ilic and Korsarro." Nodding, I pulled Izuru to her feet. "Can you walk?"

"N-no." Izuru grimaced, her head lolling against my shoulder. "My spine…"

"Okay, okay. We're going now. Just over there. Hold on." Guiding Izuru to the far side of the tower, I slapped the release of the servitor lift. "Oi, stay with me."

" _Iam bonf—_ "

"No-no, don't talk. Don't talk." I helped Izuru inside the lift, propping her against the wall and smacking the release, feeling the box judder around us. I caught Izuru as she slipped downwards, gathering her in my embrace. Izuru clung to me, linking her arms around my shoulders. Gazing at one another, I felt the tip of Izuru's nose brush mine, and her breath warming my wet skin. Shining in the darkness, Izuru's eyes spilled everything she was unable to convey to me with words. Taking her eyes, I held them in my own. Never letting go.

* * *

 **Kasr Kraf Airbase, 17:04**

"The lord castellan, sir." The signals rating passed a note back to Captain Meynell, who took it and read the note to Colonel's Lapraik and Venant. "Have established perimeter on Elysion Fields. Carry on evacuation as long as possible. Creed."

"The general lives," Venant said.

"And Eight Brigade with him, it seems," Lapraik added. "Did they request evacuation, captain?"

Meynell folded up the note. "We are to continue following the admiral's plan. I fear General Creed is choosing to go down with the ship."

"Oh, don't talk such rot," Venant snapped. "Surely he will live to fight another day. If the very planet is not exploding underneath his feet then there is still chance of a holdout force maintaining a grip on Cadia. She is too valuable a fortress."

"A personal acquaintance of the general, are you, colonel?"

"No, I… met him only once."

"Then it appears Admiral Quarren is now in overall command, with General Rebbeck remaining as GOC One Corps."

"One Corps and the rest of the odds and sods still stuck on this Emperor-forsaken planet." General Alexis Rebbeck announced himself as he ducked in to the bunker. "Good day, gentlemen."

"Afternoon, sir." Venant saluted Rebbeck. "The evacuation is proceeding well. Astartes air power holds the traitors at bay."

"Mind those salutes out here, colonel," said Rebbeck, shaking off his greatcoat. "And indeed, as I saw it on my way down here from the bastion, the evacuation goes smoothly. Any chance of a brew-up?"

"Um, yes, sir." Meynell quickly ordered a rating to use the bunker's tiny kettle, a naval-issue model, to brew Rebbeck tea.

"Beg pardon, ma-am." Rebbeck noticed Lapraik for the first time, tipping his swagger stick against his brow. "Not sure I've ever had the pleasure."

"Lapraik, sir." Lapraik shook Rebbeck's hand. "Intelligence."

"Not much call for an officer of intelligence or logistics here now."

"I wouldn't say we're been doing too badly here, sir," Venant cut in, attempting to divert the general's attention away from Lapraik. "What with the Marine air cover and the shuttle system, we've been lifting off many more men than we could have ever hoped to in one day. Hats off to the Imperial Fists, I'd say."

Armed with a mug of tea, Rebbeck then broached a subject not a single officer inside the bunker expected him to. "Now, I am no expert. But, I was quite startled to see this odd pillar of light shining from one of the Citadel's towers. Tleilax is built around a pylon, I know. Has General Creed sent any signals mentioning them?"

"I…" Meynell was interrupted by a second communiqué, also from Creed. "No cause for concern. Our red-robed allies have drawn the ace up their sleeve."

"What the dashed does that mean. Why speak cryptically?" Rebbeck growled.

"The Adeptus Mechanicus, General," Meynell guessed. "Their enginseers may have just activated the pylon network."

"To do what?"

"I'm no expert, sir."

"Right, well, the plan is unchanged. All personnel non-essential to the evacuation I want embarked. Colonel Venant, Colonel Lapraik, that means you."

"What about you, General?"

"Only after the last man leaves the airbase will Captain Meynell and I depart. At this rate, we will be a few more hours. Good luck. Very well done to the both of you."

Shaking both of their hands, Rebbeck bid the two officers farewell. "Captain, I am loathe to admit, that I shall be shortly disobeying an order," Rebbeck said, after Venant and Lapraik had gone.

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Meynell frowned. "I don't see how…"

"I will let you in to a secret, Captain." Rebbeck scratched his moustache with a finger. "If it came to it, the lord castellan ordered me to leave behind a brigadier to command those not able to be evacuated."

"Not sure it has come to that, sir. Not yet at least."

"If a last-ditch action was to be enacted…"

"Well, with Marine air, I would say our chances have improved substantially, sir."

"You know, I cannot for the life of me find any brigadiers around here." Grinning, Rebbeck raised his mug. "To last-ditch actions."

"Beg pardon, sir." The signaller held up a newly jotted communiqué. "Admiral Battlefleet Cadia. Transcript marked urgent…"

* * *

Joining a queue of naval personnel, lining up to board waiting Marine Thunderhawks, Willem Venant gave a nod of satisfaction, seeing the ground and Navy troops co-operating with one another. Besides the Navy Aquilas, Devourers, and Tetrarchs, there were Marine Thunderhawks, whose crews were willingly accepting embarkees in to their holds, and a wide variety of merchant vessels. Even some pleasure skiffs, belonging to rich nobles, had turned up to help with the evacuation.

"I never thought I'd see Guard, Navy, and Marines working together." Venant smiled at Lapraik. "Simple co-operation works wonders."

"I wonder if those civilian vessels were pressed in to naval service?"

There were both sailors and civilians overseeing the troops' embarkation. A few small lighters were even crewed by civilians alone.

"Does it matter? That they are willing to come and help puts a smile on my face." Venant brushed the dark stubble underneath his chin. He had been running on mugs of black tea these last few days. The few hours he had managed to find sleep had been fleeting.

"Overdue a few days' sleep, Will?"

"Hah. A week for me, Don."

"Come on, let's move through this crowd." Lapraik began to push at the sailors in front of her. "Officers coming through."

"Don – Don!" Venant caught Lapraik's arm. "Leave it."

"Will?" Lapraik scowled.

Venant had seen walking wounded queuing up ahead of him and Lapraik. To jump the queue when fighting men were lining up patiently for evacuation was unthinkable. And those men were combat veterans, far more deserving to live to fight another day than two officers of logistics and intelligence – both non-combatants – respectively.

"Let's wait our turn, Don. I think we can spend a little longer on Cadia."

"Very well." Lapraik, folding her arms, returned to stand beside Venant. The hostile eyes of the sailors in front followed her. "I'm sorry," she murmured, more for Venant's benefit than anyone else's.

Venant said nothing. He had hoped his friend might have learned something from Cadia. Learned that it was not always right to prioritise officers over the regular fighting man, or shun wounded simply because they could no longer fight. By letting the common soldiery go first, he hoped that he might have been setting an example to them. But, did they really care? After all, each man and woman was just as committed to his or her own survival as the next was.

It happened as Venant and Lapraik were boarding a Thunderhawk. Stepping up the lowered ramp, in to the dropship's open chin, Venant glimpsed a flash on the eastern horizon.

"Will?" Lapraik moved around Venant's shoulder. "What is that?"

Activity on the landing field had ceased as a tremendous glow, almost like a miniature sun, rose from the eastern horizon. _God-Emperor, they haven't employed atomic weapons, have they?_ Venant knew vaguely of the destructive propensities of atomics. He also knew that the initial flash blinded any one that was looking. This, however, was nearer a conventional detonation. _What could have caused that?_

"Sir, keep moving, please." A Marine crewman beckoned. "With haste!"

"After you, Don." Venant very nearly pushed Lapraik in to the Thunderhawk. Whatever cataclysm had befallen Cadia, he did not want to be on the ground when the shockwave reached Kraf.

"Will?" Standing up in the crowded bay, Lapraik squeezed over to Venant. "What was…?"

"I don't know, Don. I don't know." Venant fought the urge to clasp Don's hand. "Come on, come on," he muttered, pleading for the Thunderhawk's ramp to close. A few others were grumbling about the delay. It wasn't until a crewman, standing outside the ship, signalled to the pilots to fire up the engines, that the ramp began to raise. Hopping aboard, the Marine was up to his elbows in passengers. Briefly, Venant wondered if the Thunderhawk could carry its full human compliment, as well as the Marines. "Hang on," Venant said to Lapraik. This time, he took her hand and held it discreetly. Don squeezed, her eyes flickering about apprehensively. With the tremble of the craft lifting off, there was a sudden jolt, as if the Thunderhawk had hit turbulence. Passengers were thrown in to one another, some hitting the bulkheads. Holding Lapraik, Venant felt the huge paw of a Fist pressing in to his back, keeping him upright. Their magnetised boots anchoring them to the deck, the few Fists inside the troop bay were allowing passengers to hold on to their arms and legs. Not one said a word as the shockwave passed, all remaining rooted on the spot. Checking Lapraik was unhurt, Venant looked over his shoulder at the Fist. "Thank you," he said. As still as a statue, the silent saviour said nothing, his crimson eye-lenses staring at a point far above Venant.

* * *

 **Valkyrie 229, 15:40**

Embittered at having to abandon the trapped soldiers on the sinking _Ionia,_ Hugh Waldo made a showing of waggling his wings, hoping somebody would notice and take it as a pointer to follow him. _Head east. Head east. The shore isn't far._ Of course, from the air, reaching the eastern shore was no major achievement. But, down in the water, it could very well have been on another planet.

"Brighteye." Waldo tried his ship's vox, hoping to raise Kraf Airbase, who might then send ships to pick up the survivors. "Brighteye, this is Crow Five-Seven. Please respond."

Receiving no reply, Waldo switched between channels, even broadcasting on frequencies he knew the enemy might be listening in on. Static noise played loudly in Waldo's ears. Clutching at straws, Waldo powered off then turned the set back on, repeating the procedure, calling out on open channels for someone, anyone.

"Can't raise anybody on the net," Waldo said. "Arun, you alright back there?"

Shifting uneasily in his sweaty seat, Waldo looked around his shrapnel-riddled cockpit. Holes had been blown in the canopy, letting in the freezing air. A red light blinking on the instrument panel told Waldo that his one functioning engine was reaching dangerous levels of heat. Only the warning light worked. The actual gauge was shattered; the dial broken in to pieces. _Damaged compressor?_ Any hot gas flowing over the blades inside the turbine should have been cooled the further it travelled along the internal duct. This was no longer occurring as it should have been. _Could it be the blades or guide vanes?_

"Arun? Russ? Please say something." Waldo reduced his airspeed, aiming to hold the battered slick a hairs-breadth above stalling speed. _Intercom must be damaged. It has to be_. Hopeful, even after the hammering the transport had taken, Waldo glanced at his altimeter, never mind that it was wrecked. He could feel the gradual loss in altitude, and the sluggishness in his control yoke. _Come on, come on_.

The distant smudge of land, little more than a finger of grey, grew tantalisingly in Waldo's sights. Retracting his gunsight, Waldo watched, with both eyes now, the beach slip in to view. _There's my marker. Now, back to Kraf._ Intending to bank to starboard, putting him on a southerly heading, Waldo was unaware his engine had cut out. Only when he felt the sharp loss in forward thrust, did it become clear; the ship was now powerless. Gliding, Waldo activated his fuel reserve, hoping the pump was undamaged, hearing the return whine of the port engine kicking in to play.

 _Oh, shit_. In his rear-view camera, Waldo noticed dirty streaks of fuel were trailing in his wake. Ruptured most likely, the fuel tanks, either the reserve or the unused starboard tank, were leaking out fast. _I've got maybe minutes before I'm flying dry_. Frustrated at the tanks, which should have been self-sealing, Waldo decided a belly-landing on the beach was the safest – or least dangerous – choice out of the tiny number of options he had left. Choosing to follow the shore north instead of south, Waldo prodded the rudder pedals. _Thank the stars they're still working_.

150 feet. 100 feet. 50 feet. 10 feet. Waldo's chin was on the very edge of skimming the wavetops. Spray was blasted outwards, coating the canopy, flecks of water tickling his flight suit. Glued to his yoke, Waldo's hands kept it as steady as possible, despite the growing unresponsiveness. A rattle below Waldo's feet and behind him flipped his stomach over in worry. _God, the airframe isn't breaking up, is it?_

" _Come on_." Waldo murmured. At five feet, the beach became visible beneath the water. A dull earthen grey appeared beneath his wings. More a solid mud than mere sand, the eastern shoreline rushed up to the slick's underbelly. Killing the port engine's fuel pump, Waldo shut down completely, bringing the slick in to a gentle stall, bleeding airspeed, and putting it down on the beach. Gripped by a giant fist, Waldo was shaken very nearly out of his seat, the straps of his harness iron brands squeezing his chest. Muck, gouged out by the nose and the bent wingtips, was flung up in to the air, quickly building up on the canopy. Letting go of his rattling yoke, Waldo held on to the thick handle above his head, shutting his eyes. A sharp stop brought Waldo's helmet crashing against his shattered instrument panel.

* * *

 **Kraf Airbase, 17:09**

"Planetwide cataclysm imminent. Evacuate your command immediately," Meynell read.

"Is that all?" Rebbeck stared at the paper in confusion. "What has the enemy done?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Sir, permission to enter." A lookout leant in to the bunker. A pair of macrobinoculars were hanging from his neck.

"Enter. What is it?" Rebbeck beckoned irritably.

"Sir, there's a disturbance on the eastern horizon."

"Well, what exactly by disturbance do you mean?" Rebbeck glared. The petty officer was addressing Captain Meynell, as opposed to him.

"There's a big flash on the eastern horizon, sir."

"…Big flash." Rebbeck scoffed. "Captain, let's have a look at this."

Flicking the dregs of his tea on to the ground outside the bunker, Rebbeck climbed up a narrow set of concrete steps, leading up to the roof. Where the Hyperios missile turret had sat on its 360-degree mount, there was now only a crumpled heap of metal in its place. It had taken a heavy mortar round square on, destroying it outright. Now, only a single Rekyl gun, mounted on an anti-aircraft mount, stood vigil over the bunker. Curved magazines were scattered about the two gunners' feet. Brass carpeted the rooftop. Spent barrels were lying around.

"Right over there, sir." The lookout held out the glasses to Rebbeck.

"God-Emperor almighty," Rebbeck said flatly. He did not need the glasses to pick out the tremendous orb of light rising from far to the east; well over the horizon in fact. On the crowded airstrip, heads had turned in that direction. People were pointing. Exclamations of dismay and horror carried over to Rebbeck and Meynell's ears.

"Atomics?"

"I'm sorry, Captain?"

"You think atomics, sir?" Meynell wondered whether the enemy may have started employing atomic warheads on a tactical level without fear of the hazardous after-effects the crude weapons left behind.

"I have no idea, Captain."

"God-Emperor protect us, sir." The lookout said in a little voice.

Taking the glasses from him, Rebbeck scanned the unnatural phenomenon. "Emperor-blessed ferrocrete protects us here, Petty Officer."

"Shockwave, sir," Meynell said. "Expect a dust cloud to reach Kraf at least."

"Alright, warn the men out there to expect disruption." Rebbeck turned, hearing a loud thump of boots coming up the steps. An Imperial Fist, bolter in hand, called to Rebbeck. "This is no natural occurrence, General."

"That is what I feared, Marine," Rebbeck replied. "Please excuse me. I must contact the admiral."

Stepping around the Marine, Rebbeck returned to the bunker. "GOC One Corps to Admiral Battlefleet Cadia. Evacuation still in-progress. Will remain on the ground only until last man is off."

Only once every able-bodied man was lifted out of Kraf would Rebbeck board the last ship. Something else gnawed at him. That was the downing of the troopship _Ionia_. _How many were aboard. 6000?_ A brief sweep over the lake before departing the atmosphere would have to suffice.

* * *

 **The Citadel, 17:24**

Sitting with our backs to the rusted bars, Izuru and I waited for the lift to carry us back to ground level. Having said nothing to one another, I had an arm around Izuru's shoulders, with her head resting against mine. Squeezing her shoulder, I shook it gently. The lift had stopped. "You'd better not be sleeping on me."

"Mmm?" Izuru stirred.

"C'mon. Bye-byes are over. Let's go."

" _No. No-no-no_." Izuru pushed weakly at my hand as it went behind her neck.

"What's this?" My fingers felt a wetness underneath her loosening bun. Blood crystals shone on my fingers when I drew my hand back. " _Oh, my god_."

"James?"

"You're alright. You're alright, Izuru. I'm gonna carry you now."

"No-no. Please, no." She trembled.

"Nothing doing." I popped the clasps on her assault vest and unzipped it, removing her arms from the empty carrier. "Don't need that anymore." As the vest came away, I saw the tear in her jacket where she had taken a bullet. It was low on her midriff, beneath her navel. I had heard about how painful those wounds were. That she was keeping quiet about it spoke leagues about her iron will and unparalleled strength.

"Oi, you did good." I patted Izuru's cheek. "He's gone. S'alright, he can't hurt us anymore."

Whimpering, Izuru shook her head.

"Well, Shesmet's got him, yeah. I reckon that's punishment enough for that rat-bastard."

"No. No. Let the Serpent feed on his soul."

"Yeah. C'mon, up you come." I pulled Izuru's arm around my shoulders. "Moving."

Outside the servitor lift was an underground motor pool, bare of M/T, bare of everything. It had all been taken by the fleeing Cadians, leaving nought but vacant parking spaces.

"Where is Lusia?" Izuru asked. He hand was pressed firmly against her belly. "Where?"

"She's here. I've got her here." I patted the rifle pouch I had Lusia's core stored in. Aside from that and the empty Moses I carried nothing. No water, food, or a med pack to treat Izuru's wounds. "You listening?"

"Yes…" Izuru's head was drooping.

"You listening!"

"Yes," Izuru groaned, strain in her voice. "This will not work…"

"Uh?"

"Bear me on your shoulders."

"Are you sure?"

"I will not crawl."

"No. Alright."

Laying Izuru down on the hard surface, I managed – after several tries – to lift her up and carry her over my shoulders, continually apologising when my clumsy attempts aggravated her wounds. With Izuru draped across my shoulders, I pushed my left arm between her legs and held on to her arm which was hanging over my shoulder, completing the link.

"Not far now," I grunted. "Don't be nattering now."

It was hard, not to carry Izuru, but to shut my ears to her moans of pain. Hearing her reminded me of the previous night, and what we had shared. I had not wanted to hurt her, either physically or emotionally. Whether I was gentle with her or not, I couldn't remember. Only the feel of her skin, her taste, and her smell I could immediately recall. Anything else was just vivid images, like it had been a dream.

"…Cyrano!" Izuru cried suddenly.

"Ssh! Please, Izuru." I staggered up stairs that led out of the motor pool, placing one foot after the other on the unvarnished steps, trying to avoid tripping over the nosing. This continued, for there were many flights to go before, at last, I spotted light through a covered walkway spanning a sunken road that led up to a landing pad built in to the lower eastern sector of the Citadel, almost overlooking the ravaged city beyond the curtain wall. Izuru blurting Cyrano's name was like a rusted knife to the guts, the painful twist being that his body would not be recovered; only his tags. Overturning my mind, I searched for a memory to focus on, something I could tell Izuru.

"Three beings at an altar: one human, one Eldar, one Greenskin…"

"Altar?"

"Had a dream once. We was getting married and… this – this Ork. He was marrying us. Had the sash and the book and everything." I didn't tell her about the bag of severed feet the Ork wore around his neck. I wanted to humour her as much as I could; make her think of things other than our lost friends.

"You dreamt about me?"

"You frightened me. On Platis, Grendel. You terrified me. You were a daemon. A witch."

"Are you still?"

"Nah. Not now."

"Do you want to?"

I laughed, the laughter quickly being overtaken by spluttering and wheezing. "Gotta stop. Hold on." Pausing, I leant against the wall. My knees felt like buckling underneath me. "Almost there."

Exhausted, I carried Izuru down a shallow ramp; the last leg. "Stay with me." Teetering, I walked out of the tunnel in to the light. " _No_. No-no-no-no-no, where's the fucking shuttle!" I raged, seeing the empty berths. "Where is it?"

Nothing but a few containers, five feet by four, sat on the wide hexagonal landing pad. Aquilas, bolted to the steel sheeting, had lost their white sheen, having come under bombardment at one point or the other. Yellow and black warning lines were painted around the edges of the pad, the bordering armour-plating lowered. The deserted nature of the landing pad became, as a whole, less important when I spotted the glow beyond the horizon.

"Down. Put me down."

Izuru's voice reigned in the uncoiled anger that was flowing through my system, immediately calming me. "Alright." Going down on my knees, I helped Izuru to sit against a container, joining her and stretching my legs out. Together we faced the second sun.

"That's coming off." I tugged my sodden beret from my head, throwing the soft cover over the edge of the pad. A line of sweat ringed my head. Blood, whether mine or someone else's, had made my skin sticky. Resting there, I got my first good look at the torn-up remains of my sleeves and the rips in my trousers. Touching the dirty and bloody material, I ran my glove up my trouserleg. It should have hurt but it didn't. Izuru took my hand, removing the glove and holding on, pressing our joined hands against her breast. It was my turn to put my head on her shoulder.

" _Iam furta ill-thara asha_."

"What's that mean?"

"I will leave soon."

"Not without me, you're not."

"Does it not bother you. The phenomenon I see there?"

As in the dark as Izuru was about the glow to the east, I shook my head. "I don't care. Only thing that bothers me now is you."

With nothing to do but wait for the ship Lusia had called, we watched the spectacle. It was the cloud of dust, sweeping in from near-half a world away that drew my eyes from the shape of the Aquila shuttle, a speck within the clouds, that was coming in from orbit. _Thank the Archmagos for that_ , I thought, gripping Izuru underneath her armpits. "Hang on. I'm gonna drag you round here."

Semi-conscious, Izuru let me drag her behind the cover of the containers. "We're cutting it a bit fine here. We'll wait for this muck to pass then we'll embark. You hang on there, okay?" I lay down beside her and did my best to protect her face. My hunch had been correct. The cloud reached us long before the Aquila could land. Roaring in our ears, the dust storm blocked out the sun, coating everything in a brown haze. Hoping the worst would pass in a few moments, I peered through a crack in my eyes. Coloured landing lights were visible in the dust. _The Aquila!_

"Let's go!" Picking Izuru up, I pulled her over my shoulders and carried her out in to the wind. The scouring dust swallowed me up, propelling me forwards, even with the weight of Izuru. I had to fight to get a foot down and move in the direction of the shuttle. Near-blinded, I fumbled as a starved beggar would, achieving the walking pace of an invalid. The lights, both red and green, blinked placidly at me. Finally reaching the Aquila, I ducked underneath the hull, searching for the hatch. It was only when I hit something flat and solid did I realise that the crew compartment had lowered itself to the ground. The access hatch was facing to the rear, opening up when I hit the release. Bearing Izuru inside, I quickly shut the dust out. In darkness, I stood still for a moment until overheard lighting came on.

"Izuru?" Lowering her on to a long and narrow seat, I brushed the dust from her face. We were both brown ghosts. "Izuru—?" Inhaling some of the dust, I promptly dissolved in to a bout of coughing fits. "I'm coming back." I touched her shoulder and moved past her, pressing random buttons in a control box in the hope that it would raise the crew compartment and connect it with the cockpit.

"James…?"

"I'm here. I'm here, Izuru – ah, got it!" I stepped back, waiting for the compartment to become level with the rest of the shuttle's interior.

"Where are you?"

"Just up here. I'm getting Lusia hooked in."

 _Come on._ I thumped upon the accessway. When the circular hatch unsealed, I swung through, ducking as I passed underneath an observation dome. This midsection had no direct access to the cockpit, only a central cogitator, presumably where a crew member would regulate all the ship's onboard systems. "Okay, Lusia, where do I put you?" I unclipped the pouch I had Lusia's core sitting in and brought the cylinder out. Conscious of Izuru's condition, and her time running short, I looked over every possible access point, finding nothing big enough to hold Lusia. "C'mon, you bastard, where are you?" I seethed. Only by kicking the cogitator, did I find the prerequisite dock for Lusia. I had not seen the second row underneath the console. On slipping the core in, the ship came online without any delay. Next to a palm-reader, a small screen began spooling off text.

" _Hello, James_." It read.

"Lusia! Lusia, can you hear me?" I bent low to the screen. "Get us out of here now."

" _Wait one_."

The powering up of the shuttle's engines drowned out the noise of the storm outside. In no more than a minute, Lusia had us in the air.

"God bless you, Lusia." I grinned in relief, flopping over the cogitator.

" _Izuru?_ "

"Izuru." I cast around for any storage cupboards. "Lusia, I need a medkit. Water and food too."

" _Medical supplies in the third locker on the second row down._ "

"Where's that…?"

" _Overhead_."

Tearing at the overhead lockers, I pulled out a bundle of medical items usually found in a Unit One bag. Clean dressings, emergency water, plasma, scissors, a splint, all of it fell at my feet. I took what I could immediately carry down to Izuru.

"Water." I thrust the sealed bottle at her. "I'll bind that gunshot wound you got there too. Izuru?"

"…James."

"Hang on." I broke the seal and gave the water back. "Drink."

"James, I cannot—"

"Can't what? I'm trying…" I undid Izuru's jacket, revealing her khaki t-shirt beneath. Lifting the sweat-sodden material away, I made a space to wrap the dressing around her bare midriff. "No cloth scraps driven in? Nah, you're grand."

"James, listen to me."

"Shush. Let me do this." I ripped open the packet holding the dressing and began winding it around Izuru's belly. "Water. Drink."

Izuru refused the water. All the time I had been working, her eyes hadn't left the ceiling.

"There. You're good." I tied off the ends.

"James, I cannot see," Izuru said, her voice strained, nearly breaking.

"Dust in your eyes…" I wetted a cloth and wiped it across Izuru's face. "There. I still want to kiss that."

The fresh cuts showing clearly above the older scars, Izuru inclined her bruised face. "I cannot see you." Izuru shut her eyes, tears growing underneath, until they spilled readily across her cheeks. A quivering in her lower lip, and the irregular manner in which her chest rose and fell threatened to bring me out in more tears. Taking a second dressing, I tied it around Izuru's head.

"You'll be alright. These AdMech, they'll fix you." Bowing my head, I touched my forehead to Izuru's, moving a hand from her arm to her shoulder. "Then you'll be home soon."

* * *

 **Kraf Airbase, 17:32**

An island in the clouds of rolling dust, the anti-aircraft bunker was sealed tight to the stinging wind. Dust still found its way in, creating a fine film on the maps and commo equipment inside. Seizing one such map, Rebbeck beat it to expel the dust. "Well, there's some consolation, Captain," Rebbeck said.

"General?" Meynell was assisting his signaller in clearing the muck from the vox set. "What's that?"

"The enemy won't be able to move in this. Co-ordination between ground elements will be impossible."

"And that helps us how, sir…?"

"The evacuation shall continue regardless."

"Well, the Marines permitting—"

"They won't let us down, Captain. The Navy—"

"The Navy will do their duty, sir."

A thump of a fist upon on the reinforced door announced the return of the Imperial Fist.

"General." The Marine ducked inside, shutting the door behind him. "I trust this minor disruption will not affect matters."

"None whatsoever, Marine. Can your pilots fly blind in this?" Rebbeck said.

"Absolutely, sir. I suggest IR strobes are employed to mark the landing zones."

"Agreed. Convey my compliments to your commanding officer, Marine."

"I will, sir."

"Marine, do you know the cause of this?"

"I am unsure at this time, General. I will need to speak to my commanding officer. He may then need to contact Commodore Trevaux."

"Right. And thank you."

"Well I never. Wilful co-operation," Meynell remarked once the Marine had gone.

"Mm. Could have come a little earlier, I admit. Still, uplifts the soul to know the Marines are actually helping now," Rebbeck said.

"Yes, sir." Meynell, deciding to head outside to check on the troops still waiting to embark, swapped his cap for hard cover.

"Are you going out there?"

"To find my officers and get a handle on what's happening," Meynell replied, turning up his collar.

Hit in the face by the wind, Meynell pushed the bunker's door shut. _Throne of Terra, what a nightmare! What the bloody hell could have caused this?_

That question must've plagued every person on the airstrip at least once. What had the enemy done to Cadia? Putting it aside, focusing on the present problems, Meynell found the queues had reorganised themselves. Even in the terrific wind, men were standing in line, patiently awaiting evacuation. A few wandering stragglers, Meynell directed to the queues. "This way, son. Wait in line here. Marines will pick you up. Be patient. It won't be long now."

Meynell bumped in to a Marine first before he found any of his officers. In a strange display of helpfulness, the Marine explained to Meynell – over the wind – that there were only about a thousand men left on the airbase, and that they could be lifted within the hour.

"Right, thank you." Meynell shouted back. "I'll let the general know."

Speaking of the general, Meynell wondered how Creed was faring. If the perimeter his forces had established upon the Elysion Fields held. And what was the business about those pylons. How did they factor in to everything?

"I have a boots-on-the-ground estimation on troops still to be evacuated, General," Meynell told Rebbeck when he eventually found his way back to the bunker.

"And?"

"Just over a thousand men. Fist estimation is that they can be lifted within the hour. Uh…" Meynell wiped dirt from his chrono. "Make that about forty-five to fifty minutes."

"Was the Marine sure?"

"He was outside when the dust came. I'm sure he had a far clearer picture than we did before visibility dropped. I'll admit I will be glad to wrap this up. Get back to Wolfhound…"

"I am flying up to Lake Scutula once we are done here," Rebbeck said.

"To look for survivors?"

"I won't pass over 6000 men like they are nothing."

"Look at how many we've saved here; well in to six-digit figures, sir."

"With the enemy thrown in to confusion, I doubt they will take notice of a small transport."

"Send a junior officer, sir. How will it look if you are shot down in the closing stages of the evacuation?"

"Either accompany me or return to the admiral. Do not oppose me, Captain," Rebbeck said darkly.

"Very well. We shall leave arm-in-arm, General." Meynell conceded, despite the foolhardy nature.

Meynell's chrono read 18:38 when, at last, a Fist entered the bunker and let Rebbeck know that all Guard and Navy personnel had been evacuated.

"Send a message to Admiral Quarren," Rebbeck told the signaller. "Make it short: Imperial Guard and Navy evacuated."

"General, you have a Thunderhawk awaiting you on the tarmac," the Marine said.

"Splendid work. Captain, we are done in Kraf."

"Right, everybody in here out." Meynell oversaw the removal of his staff and destruction of everything they could not take with them, including the vox.

"I have one last request, Marine. A troopship bearing 6000 men went down over Lake Scutula."

"At present capacity, we will not be able to take on many more passengers," the Fist said.

"I must be sure that we are not abandoning them."

A pause. The marine had not moved an inch. "Very well."

* * *

 **Lake Scutula, 18:57**

Coughing up water, Joe awoke violently. Pressed in between Aimo and Peter's shoulders, Joe's head had slipped almost entirely under the surface. "Aimo!" Joe shook the water out of his eyes, wiping a hand across his freezing, dust-covered face.

"Uh?" Aimo had fallen asleep too. "Joe?"

"S'alright, I'm here. Peter, you okay? Oi, wake up." Joe slapped Peter's face. "Peter!"

Shocked awake by the slap, Peter blinked at Joe. There was not a trace of colour in his face.

"You alright?" Joe pinched Peter's cheek. "Yeah?"

Bobbing his head, Peter spat out water.

"Tom?" Joe kicked his numb legs, raising himself out of the water. "Where's Tom?"

"What? He's right here." Aimo shook the shoulder of a stranger that had linked arms with him hours before. "Tom?"

Reaching new lows, Joe's spirits wanted to carry him down in to the depths that had claimed first Ral then Tom, and so many others. With the coming of the horrid wave of dust, the tiny number of heads floating on the surface grew smaller and smaller. Wondering if he was already dead, and he was being forced to drown repeatedly, Joe slowly began to accept, to will his coming death. It was, quite simply, inevitable. Nobody was coming to save them. Too tired to call Tom's name, or to even part with Aimo and Peter, both now only being kept afloat by their life preservers, Joe began to feel himself slipping down; wanting to let it end. Periodic tremors made Joe wonder if the very world was ending. As he was floating, he heard something. Over the water, and through the clouds came a whisper, wafted it seemed from a thousand miles away. It was another song. A hymn. Very faintly, Joe followed the tune, clearly hearing the last line, which ended with the words '…to our eternal home.' Another group of Cadian survivors? Or simply an aural mirage?

"Joe," Aimo said wearily. "Is that the wind?"

"Peter." Joe jiggled Peter by the shoulder. "Wake up. What's that, Aimo?"

"Thought I was dreaming. Can I hear engines?"

With the blowing of the wind, it could be forgiven for Aimo mistaking it for the sound of a rescue ship. Bolstered by Aimo's optimism, Joe squinted up in to the murk. There was something up there, if his water-logged ears weren't deceiving him. It was Peter who noticed the searchlight playing through the clouds. Tugging Joe's collar, Peter pointed it out.

"I see it. Well done, Peter. Aimo, wake up."

"Yeah, I'm awake. What is it?"

"Searchlight."

"Hope it's not Zeke."

"Dunno. If it gets out of the water, I'm alright."

"I'm not going in the bag. Not after all this."

"You want to go where Ral and Tom went?"

"No – _no!_ "

The searchlight's origins were revealed when a box-shaped hull with an angled nose descended to the water, hovering just a few feet above the water. From its chin, a ramp lowered, at its most extreme length brushing the water. On it a Marine knelt and slowly swept the water with thermal goggles. Shouts were given by men nearby.

"We're here!"

"Help. For God's sake!"

"Pick us up! Pick us up!"

Raising his frozen arm, Joe waved. "C'mon, Aimo, wave. Peter, you too!"

Too tired to swim for the ship, the three called out to the Marine. Others, nearer to the open ramp were being dragged aboard, their stiff and frozen bodies no longer possessing the strength to lift themselves from the water.

"Peter, Aimo, swim. He'll miss us." Joe pushed at the two dead-weights. "Kick with your legs. I can't do it."

Their life preservers blooming around their heads, Aimo and Peter kicked with what little strength both had left. A hand dragging at Peter from below Peter broke free of.

"Hey, help!" Joe cried, seeing the Marine had turned to head back inside the ship. "Don't leave us!"

Hesitating, the Marine's hand hovered over the ramp control.

"Take him." Joe pushed Peter in front of him. "He's just a boy!"

Perhaps commanded by his conscience, the Marine halted the ramp and lowered it, leaning down to lift Peter out of the water.

"And him too. He's blind." Joe made sure Aimo was picked up next. When both were aboard, the Marine returned for Joe.

"Thank you." Was about all Joe could manage. Assisted by more survivors, naval officers, and what looked like a general, the three were wrapped blankets and given food and water.

"Is that the last of them?" the general shouted as the ramp shut behind him.

"No, General. We are at maximum capacity. But we cannot take any more."

"Very well. Take us up to Phalanx."

 _Phalanx?_ Joe briefly pondered on the word before falling asleep where he sat, squeezed in between Aimo and Peter; their heads on each other's shoulders.

* * *

 **Cadia Prime Orbit, 17:39**

Engulfed in flames, the Aquila shook as it breached the edge of the atmosphere. As the blinding white receded, I pressed my nose against the observation dome. Set against the impenetrable blackness of space were wrecks of warships, some intact, others broken up in to pieces and surrounded by fields of debris. The unbelievable size of many of the derelicts gave me a false sense of distance.

"Where are we going, Lusia?"

" _Up to Moirae. She is one of our cruisers. How is Izuru?_ "

"James, where are you?"

"Here. I'm here." I went down to where Izuru lay and took her hand. "Lusia's flying us to an AdMech cruiser. Won't be long now."

" _Iam bonf—_ "

Izuru was interrupted by the Aquila shuddering.

"Lusia, what is it?" I rushed up to the cogitator and looked at the blank screen.

" _Minor debris. Nothing to worry about."_

Returning to Izuru, I knelt next to her. "What did you say, Izuru?"

" _Iam bonf uel sin yass lir_."

"Yeah, what does it mean?"

A cold hand drew me towards her. Whispering in my ear, Izuru told me what it meant. Only able to come out with a small grunt, I swallowed on a throat starved of moisture, trying to make sense of it. Nothing I did made sense any more. Together, we did not make sense. Lost for words, I let Izuru cup my cheek and turn my head. Kissing me slowly, she muttered, " _elith_."

"That better not be goodbye. Please don't let that be goodbye, Izuru, you've got two lovely young boys waiting for you. They love you very much." A rising lump in my throat rendered my voice a croak. "You're so close. Don't give up now. Don't give in." Kissing her back, I rubbed my cheek against hers. It was then that I chose to tell her what she wanted to hear, or rather, what I knew I should have told her before. Nothing was withheld. There were no private misgivings, no second thoughts, or hesitation. " _Fhirin_ ," I added afterwards, a great weight lifting from my heart.

"Truth." Izuru blinked sleepily, drawing me in to her arms. "Partner of mine. Warrior. Redeemer. Find my children. Give them my love."

"I will." Taking an uneven breath, I held it, listening to her own light breathing as it blew across my ear. "I will."

"Let no stormclouds darken your horizon, or shadows mar your path. Walk with your head held high, and with an open, caring heart. Remember your friends, cherish their memories, and be thankful that such men lived."

"I won't forget you, Izuru."

"Take my Waystone from my neck. See it returned to my people."

"Of course."

"And Keladi's. You _will_ forget me. You must if you wish to live."

"Can't. Won't."

"You _must_."

"No. Not happening."

"Stubborn and ignorant."

"…And thoroughly unremarkable?"

"Yes. Yes. All that and more."

"Well, I'm – I'm a slow learner, see…" I held back on a sob. "Could never get anything done with you around."

"But, did you learn?"

"From you? Yes. I want to keep learning from you though…" Parting from her, I removed her hands and laid them by her sides. Resisting, Izuru touched my chin, moving her fingers up to caress my lips. "There may come a time when our races work together. Let truces be made. Bonds be forged. Unions be built."

"Like ours?"

Smiling, Izuru said, "in the future."

"Both our races can win if we help each other. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"Yes. Peace and a future for you and my sons."

I bent over Izuru to hear her last words. They were for me and me alone. Finding her hand, I held it as the gentle sound of her breathing slowly faded to nothing. It was a while before I realised that I was holding my breath. Expelling it loudly, I gasped at the terrible coldness in Izuru's hand, and the whiteness in her skin. A hint of sadness was in her motionless eyes. Quietly, I folded her arms across her breast, buttoning up her jacket and straightening it. Feeling empty, I shut her eyelids, looking away when another sob threatened to surface. Covering my mouth in my hand, I shut my eyes, shaking my head in sorrow, privately asking why. _Why take her now?_

Finding the cogitator, I leant on it, seeing my tormented face reflected in the screen.

" _James. I am so sorry_."

Scores of Skitarii opposed me when I stepped out of the lowered crew compartment in to _Moirae's_ hangar. Aiming their longarms at me, all the red-robed machines saw was a dead-eyed, blank-faced boy carrying an AdMech core in his arms. Stepping from the armed ranks, an Alpha came over to me, sword in hand, and took the core. Studying it, the Alpha fitted an appendage to the core's jack and interfaced with it. With less than a second's communication with Lusia, the Alpha removed the jack and carried the core away. The squads of Skitarii followed it, one-by-one, leaving me alone. Looking over my shoulder, I returned to Izuru. Bearing her as a newly-wed would carry his bride, I took her behind the Aquila and laid her gently in front of the hangar's barrier. For all its awful magnificence, I cared not for the sight of Cadia dying. I just sat, facing the planet, staring straight through it in to nothing.

* * *

 ** _Phalanx_ , Imperial Fist Fleet Headquarters, 09:03 (Phalanx Time)**

 _I'm dreaming_ , Peter thought. He had expected to awaken still floating in the water, or hiding from the bombs. Pressed in between two others, warmed from their body heat, Peter's blurred vision picked out many others sharing the space around him. Soldiers, sailors, officers, both Guard and Navy were packed in with one another.

"Hello, Peter." Joe, to Peter's right, smiled. "You okay?"

Giving a weak smile, Peter nudged Aimo.

"Oh. That you, Peter?"

"Yeah, it's him. Made it, lads."

"Not all of us," Aimo said quietly.

"We're alright though. We're alright." Joe hugged Peter.

"Stand by to disembark!" An officer – a general by the tabs on his collar – said. "On your feet, all of you."

Getting up, Peter stretched his stiff legs, shaking his aching arms. Everything was sore.

"Help Aimo, Peter," Joe said.

"Thanks, Peter." Aimo put an arm around Peter's shoulders, wobbling unsteadily as Peter helped him up.

"Where are we?" Joe said aloud.

"Beats me, mate," a sailor replied. "Don't reckon it's Cadia anymore."

Trudging down the lowered ramp, Peter cringed at the bright lights beating down on him from high up. The transport had landed in a kilometre-wide hangar that was just as high as it was broad. As well as the inhuman Marines, clad in bright yellow armour, Peter saw techpriests, servitors, regular human deck crew, and power-loaders, all working on what looked like hundreds of spacecraft docked in the hangar, which swept around in a curve that likely ringed the entire ship, if it was a ship that Peter found himself on. All that mattered now was that he wasn't on Cadia.

"Follow the yellow lines, soldiers." A Navy officer gestured. "Smartly now."

Peter caught a snippet of conversation between a higher-ranking naval officer and the Imperial Guard general as he passed. "…very well done to you, Captain. Done the Emperor's work."

"Thank you very much, General." The captain shook the general's hand warmly. "My compliments to your staff."

Moving out of earshot, Peter helped Aimo through a tall gateway leading from the hangar, Joe just behind him. Above the gate was a large mailed fist on a yellow background. Peter only caught a glimpse of it but it made him wonder who these strange beings were. Strange women, smiling women with clean faces and wearing aprons offered cards to men as they passed by. One woman, young and blonde, offered Peter a card. "Write your name, home address, and planet on here. We'll see that it's posted to your parents to let them know you are alright." She beamed. Staring in dull incomprehension, Peter gamely let the woman place the card in his hand. Her hand briefly touched his own dirty hand. The softness of her skin startled him. It was so clean, so smooth. Like the hands of an angel. Joe guiding him from behind pulled the dumbstruck Peter away from the woman.

The threesome joined growing queues of soldiers, most of them Cadians, precious few from foreign regiments. Growing to hundreds, the mass of dirty khaki, brown, and olive grey migrated through marbled corridors with decorated ceilings and stained-glass windows. The sight of it amazed Peter. He had never seen so much decorative splendour in his entire life.

"Stay together, lads," Joe said, when he noticed the crowds were being divided in front of them in to lines. Nodding, Peter was about to reply. He could almost speak again; he knew it. Not a single word had passed his mouth since his father had been lost. Now though, in charge of Aimo, Peter felt a strange protectiveness of his friends, a desire to remain by their side always, and to never let them down as he had his father.

Peter felt Joe's comforting hand on his shoulder, as he guided Aimo through a turnstile and towards a waiting train. A good hundred yards long, the carriage's doors were all open, letting the men stream aboard. It was no train like Peter had even ridden on before. There were rails the carriages rode on without needing individual wheels to keep them upon the tracks. Baffled by the alien technology, Peter took Aimo aboard and sat him down in a seat beside the window. Joe sat opposite.

"Alright?" Joe asked.

Nodding, Peter's mouth moved. Noises came, but words did not.

"Sorry." A Cadian, as bedraggled as the three were, stood above Joe. "May I…?"

"Course, mate. Sit down." Joe moved over to the window.

"Where are we then?" Aimo spoke.

"On some mag-train. Dunno where we're going." Joe looked behind him at the seats which were now full of filthy, exhausted Cadians.

"For punishment," the Cadian said forlornly.

"Oi, what d'you mean?" Joe stared at the man, surprised at his pessimism.

"What do you think they'll do with us after we lost Cadia? We let everyone down."

"We lived. That's good enough in my book, that is."

"Yeah, he's right." Aimo nodded.

Peter nodded too, feeling the growing speed. Somehow a newspaper found its way in to the table in front of him. Peter's gaze was fixed on the wonders of the new environment that was flying past the window. He only saw the newspaper when Aimo slid it over to his side.

"Read us the paper, would you?"

Flipping over a copy of the Imperator Victrix which was dated just that morning, Peter saw the bold headline on the front page and, swallowing, began to read.

* * *

 **Cadia Primus, Lake Scutula Shoreline**

Waldo's head was resting against his breast when he came to. Blinking groggily, he looked up at the broken instruments in front of him. His onboard chronometer, the only working instrument left, read 18:10. _Nearly two and a half hours. Arun!_

Clumsy fingers loosening his harness, Waldo punched the quick-release, shaking the straps off. Unlocking the canopy manually, he pushed upwards, blinking in confusion at the haze of dust. _Where did that come from?_ Swirling around the crashed slick, the patchy dust was even blotting out the sun above, making it look like an eclipse was in effect. Disconnecting his intercom and oxygen, Waldo clambered out of the cockpit, dropping down on to the soft sand. Mounds of the stuff had built up around the slick where it had come to rest.

 _Arun?_ Waldo saw the shattered canopy, and the dark stain of blood coating the inside. _God, no. Arun._ With no way to open the canopy from the outside, Waldo took the butt of his laspistol to the broken glass, bashing a hole wide enough for him to reach in and use the manual release. There was not a thing he could have done for Arun Ovile, as it turned out.

 _I've got you, pal_. Waldo lifted Arun gently from his seat and carried him around to the rear of the ship. Reaching up for the release handle, Waldo pulled on it, opening the troop bay. In the darkness, Russ Reath was shielding Ori Hensen's body with his own. Irv Sice lay next to his door gun. Nobody stirred. Climbing in, Waldo looked on in mounting grief at the brutal gouges in the fuselage, where shells had entered, ravaging the bodies of his crew _. My crew. My family_. Waldo dropped to his knees, pulling off his helmet and bowing his head. _Why take them? Why not me as well?_

Silently damning the Emperor, Waldo went to his crew and arranged them neatly, laying them alongside one another. _Arun, Irv, Russ, Ori_. _Fine fellows, every one of you._ Waldo would burn the bodies before the enemy found them. Burn the flight recorder. Burn the maps. Burn the Valkyrie. Burn everything.

 _You shall not have them_ , he thought determinedly, pulling the slick's black box from where it was stored in the cockpit. With the maps, his survival kit, and laspistol, he tossed a lit thermite grenade, making sure the tiny charges in the wings were primed and ready to go off first.

* * *

"Cadia stands," Peter read, his eyes following the small black print. "And with it stands the might of the Imperial Guard, the Navy, and the Space Marines. There was always a chance, through the enemy's tyranny and malice, that he might prevail in his many conquests of Cadia Prime, undertaken over a period of ten-thousand standard years. We must prepare ourselves for every kind of shrewd and devious manoeuvre, every tactic, every stratagem. Though the Cadian armies were saved from annihilation, it must be noted that there can be no victory in retreat, despite the success of the evacuation, achieved only through gallant and wilful co-operation between the Guard, the Navy, and the Marines, whose arrival assisted greatly in the rescue of our armies."

Quietly reading aloud to Aimo, Peter did not notice the crowds outside the windows as the train began to slow. Believing them hostile, the Cadian opposite Aimo shied away from whom he believed were there to belittle and criticise, muttering, " _I'm sorry, I'm sorry_ ," again and again under his breath.

"Peter, look!" Joe pressed himself against the window.

"Please, no." The Cadian whimpered.

"If you look up, you'll see." Joe exclaimed.

Looking up, Peter was astonished at the colourful banners and streamers fluttering above the cheering crowds that were gathering around a terminus. Opening a window, Joe was rushed by civilians clad in robes, both female and male. Scented oils were wafted underneath him by a techpriest, who made the sign of the aquila, smiling underneath his hood. Receiving a kiss from a girl, Joe was handed a bundle of food and drink, wrapped up in a blanket. "Thank you. Thank you." He grinned, elated at the unexpected welcome.

Next to Peter, Aimo smiled. The Cadian, stunned, reached for a bottle of water and drank, unfolding the blanket and taking a piece of fruit for himself. Little interested in the food and drink that was spilling through windows all along the train, Peter nudged Aimo and continued to read to him. "Though Cadia and a number of other worlds in the system have fallen in to the enemy's iron grasp. The Imperium, as a unified body, goes on. It endures, as it has done for ten-thousand years. With our Emperor's guidance, it shall endure for ten-thousand more, but only if citizens young and old, male and female, human and abhuman choose to fight for their empire. Fight for their homes. Fight for their loved ones. And Fight, above all, for the God-Emperor of Mankind. Our leader. Our saviour. And even if the enemy's boots tread the halls of the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra, staining it with the taint of their so-called victory, I am confident that, with the turn of the millennium, the new Imperium, rising from the ashes as the phoenix would, shall herald a new era of peace and prosperity, as humans step forth and take their rightful place as liberators and masters of the galaxy."

* * *

 _Goodbye, old girl_. Waldo said a silent farewell to his fallen steed as she burned brightly in front of him. Standing at a safe distance, Waldo remained rooted on the ground, watching the bright beacon shining through the dust. Inside the ship, the four bodies were receiving the best treatment Waldo could grant them; a quick funeral. While he still had his freedom, Waldo vowed to protect his crew's bodies from the enemy, who would very likely desecrate them. _They will get nothing from the wreck_. Only once they were gone would he grant the enemy permission to have him. _Not my crew_.

Even when shadows armed with bayonets melted from the cloud to surround Waldo, he never looked any of them in the eye, never raised his hands, never gave in. _Now, you may take me,_ he thought, remaining upright and defiant to the end. _But I will never surrender to you_.

* * *

Cadia broke that day, just as my spirit did. Sitting cross-legged in front of the barrier, I opened my hand, studying the elegant gem I held in my palm; her Waystone. The body in front of me I had draped in a blanket, covering it from head to foot entirely. There was nothing else I could do. Heartbroken, I gazed at my reflection in the barrier, tears flowing down my face, uncaring of the planet breaking up in the distance. There was nobody left but me. I was all alone.


	50. Epilogue

**The House of Trazyn, Solemnace, Ultima Segmentum**

Past the many empty galleries Shesmet swept, seeking out her mentor and protector. With the Despoiler's treachery, the planet of Cadia had fallen, severing the anti-psychic field that was pushing the warp back, closing the Eye of Terror. Unchecked, the Eye spread, engulfing the ruins of Cadia, swallowing it up in chaotic storms, drowning the entire Cadian System. Supervising the mass exodus from Cadia's orbit, Shesmet, with Trazyn, returned to Solemnace in the aftermath of the planet's destruction.

The once thriving collection Trazyn had gathered over millennia, artefacts, beings, human and xenos, had suffered at the Infinite's own hand. Countless exhibits were now bare of their inhabitants. Seeking to assist the beleaguered Ursarker Creed's army, Trazyn had gathered the best combat troops he had in his possession and stored them inside a Tesseract Labyrinth, only letting them loose when the situation became dire in the cavern beneath the Elysion Fields. Trazyn himself had forbidden Shesmet taking part in the titanic cash with the Despoiler. Shesmet herself had no interest in meddling in the affairs of the mortals. She had her prize, and would shortly offer it to her mentor.

Smiling, Shesmet entered the scrying chamber, seeing Trazyn before a blurred image of Archmagos Belisarius Cawl. It had been the Archmagos's fleet that had rescued the surviving Guardsmen and Marines from the cavern, as well as his tech-mastery that had ensured the pylons had fired. Patiently awaiting Trazyn, Shesmet weighed up the cube in her hand. It held only one being. But it was the being she had sought after for so long. _Now, I have you forever_.

As the Archmagos faded away, Trazyn turned, inclining his head and blinking slowly. It was the closest to a welcoming smile he could manage.

"How do you fare, young Shesmet?" Trazyn went to her, taking her hand in his and running a finger across her palm.

"Rested. I would ask you the same."

"Aggrieved."

"How so?"

"Empty. So much of my collection gone forever." Resting a hand over where his heart would have been, Trazyn sighed. "I hope it was worth it."

"You were right to send the Imperium aid, dear mentor. Strong leaders have arisen in the wake of Cadia's destruction…"

"No, the Imperium needs a strong leader now. Not a handful of warlords leading ragged bands of survivors. With the warp in turmoil, travel has become impossible for the Imperials. They cannot flee the Despoiler's forces, for he yet pursues them out of the system. I can no longer assist the Archmagos."

"Come." Shesmet linked an arm through Trazyn's and accompanied him out of the chamber. "I have a gift for you."

"Can this gift reverse the enemy's fortunes?"

"No. I have an Inquisitor captive."

"Inquisitor…" Trazyn rumbled. "I had an Inquisitor before."

"Not this one."

"You are acquainted with him, I sense."

"Let us say we knew each other fairly intimately."

Stopping before an empty containment field, Shesmet tossed the cube through the barrier, willing it to set itself directly in the centre. "Let me introduce you to Inquisitor Osvat Radu Zeleska of the Ordo Hereticus."

The oozing wound in the centre of the Inquisitor's chest staining his fine jerkin, Zeleska's frozen hands ran with blood, his ashen face a frail shadow of his past arrogance.

"Let him remain there, nursing his pain for eternity," Shesmet said, raising a hand in farewell to Zeleska. "Goodbye, my love."

"An insignificant find." Trazyn took Shesmet away from the still-very-much-aware Inquisitor. "I have something far greater to show you."

The few artefacts remaining in Trazyn's collection were mostly archaic sets of armour and ancient weaponry. The beings were all either non-combatants or in comas; otherwise in no condition to fight. One such being, a human whom Shesmet did not recognise, was what Trazyn showed to her.

"A human. A soldier. Why recover this one from Cadia? He is wounded also."

"No ordinary human, dear Shesmet."

"Why?"

"He is the lord castellan of Cadia."

* * *

 **Adeptus Mechanicus Light Cruiser _Moirae_ , Cadian System**

The tears tracts on my cheeks had long since dried, leaving me gazing at the pin-prick glow of the planet. Willing the body underneath the blanket to stir, I drew the wool back, looking down on Izuru's face. _Ilic and Korsarro, I'm so sorry._ They would not know why their mother was dead, not unless I told them. _Who else was there that could?_

A clank of feet on the deck drew closer and closer to me until they stopped at my shoulder. The AdMech reflected in the barrier was a stranger. Ignoring it, I covered Izuru's face and sat back.

"It's me, James." The AdMech spoke in Lusia's voice. A hand touched my shoulder.

"They have to know," I murmured.

"Who has to know?"

"She's got children."

"Oh…"

The body Lusia had been granted wore white robes, decorated with a blood-red trim. A crimson sash was tied around her waist. Underneath her hood, a face resembling a respirator mask stared down at me. Instead of a luminous green, Lusia's eyes were now a cold blue.

"I need something to write on," I said.

Lusia opened a leatherbound book held at her waist by a chain and tore off a blank page, passing me an ink-fed stylus to write with. Bowing, she backed away.

 _Too many letters_ ,I thought, touching the crisp parchment with the nub of the stylus, seeing a tiny dot of ink on the page. As with Martti's letter, I gave up the truth.

 _Dear Ilic and Korsarro. My name is James. You may remember me from Grendel. I was the youth who helped to save you from those who would have seen you separated from your mother. I write to you now in sympathy for your dear mother, Izuru Numerial. We were reunited, your mother and I, on Nemesis Tessera, though I did not know it at that time because I was in a coma and dying from a wound sustained during battle. What I do know is that she went far out of her way to ensure I was recovered from the battlefield, given medical treatment, and returned to my friends. I owed Izuru everything after that. Do you know what a life debt is? Well, circumstances thrust us together again, this time on Cadia. I won't lie, the reunion was a confused affair, stained with violence against one another. This violence was gradually replaced with trust, and later friendship that grew during the battles we fought. Cadia was a meatgrinder and a near-constant stall-and-delay action. Throughout the fight, your mother never wavered in her commitment to us, though to become so openly involved brought terrible danger upon her. Many – most – humans would have been readily against any foreign assistance, for Izuru was the last survivor of her Ranger company and completely alone. She attracted the attention of a very bad human, an Inquisitor, whose job it was to hunt down and kill beings like her simply because she was not human. It was the murder of one that was close to her, a Howling Banshee by the name of Keladi Lethidia whom she sought, that drove Izuru to hunt the hunter and prevent him from hurting any other beings. I felt duty-bound to accompany her. Together we tracked the Inquisitor, together we found him, and together we ended his life. It was through this action that Izuru was grievously wounded, and, borne on my shoulders as she did me, I carried your mother to a rescue ship, and departed Cadia with her. Understand please, Ilic and Korsarro, that your mother's thoughts were always on you. Her sons. Two shining lights in the night sky. They are gods to me, she said once. I believed her. It was her desire that you not follow in her footsteps, rather choose a path different from the warrior. I have seen war. Seen what it does to youth. And your mother does not wish you to lose your youth, as I lost mine. Always remember that it was you that she fought so hard for. I will admit, with a hand on my heart, that I grew to love your mother during the short time we spent together, and wished that she could have further tutored me in the ways of war. But, I believe there can be lessons of greater value learned from camaraderie, friendship, and love than there can be of conflict. It was those lessons she taught me. The Ranger, the Warrior-Woman; your mother. Unparalleled in battle, compassionate to her friends, and loving as a mother. She watches over you, Ilic and Korsarro, always._

 _James Larn._

I didn't know how long I spent writing, only that the ink was long dry by the time I had stopped re-reading it. Folding the letter in half, I tucked it inside Izuru's jacket, tugging the blanket back over her, trying not to look at her face. Sporadic flashes against the backdrop of space did not interest me. Not even when they gave way to slim and elegant xenos warships did I take notice. _You're too late_. I stared at the belated arrival of the Eldar fleet. _She's gone_. I gave no acknowledgement to Lusia when she returned to my side. Folding her skirts beneath her, she sat. Nothing she said breached the mental perimeter I had erected around myself.

* * *

 ** _The Avenging Blade_**

Drawn to the Cadian System by the surging warp currents, Eldrad Ulthran surveyed the larger Adeptus Mechanicus warship from the bridge of the Ynnari flagship, casting his mind out for Izuru Numerial. _Where are you, child of mine?_ At his shoulder, the lady Yvraine spoke. "Tell these mechanical monstrosities that we come in peace, Seer-Captain."

"Yes, my lady."

"Let us be swift," Yvraine muttered to Eldrad. "If your so-called ambassador is aboard then we can extricate her and be away before the humans catch our scent."

"Lady Yvraine, Izuru Numerial is daughter to me. No mere ambassador."

"Your daughter Macha has your fleet, Seer. Do you know where she has taken it?"

"Macha's expedition to Biel-Tan does not concern me, Prophet."

"Do you really sense your so-called daughter's presence on that ship then?" Yvraine looked at Eldrad dubiously, the spikes of her tall head-dress narrowly missing him. Curled at her feet, the Gyrinx Alorynis purred.

"Do you? Did you try?"

Smirking, Yvraine left Eldrad with Alorynis and went to confer with her seer-captain. _She has too much Macha in her. Hot-headed and arrogant. Everything Izuru is not._ Eldrad had personally watched the change Izuru underwent. Her time with the corsairs, and the recovery of her children had curbed her arrogance and taught her patience. It was why he wished for Izuru to take his place as one of the figureheads of the Ynnari after he was gone. Touching the crystals on his right forearm, Eldrad ran a hand up his wide sleeve, feeling the uneven growths underneath his fingers. _Not long I have now._

Fire from the AdMech cruiser's batteries bloomed upon the _Blade's_ shields. Believing Yvraine would order the seer-captain to return fire, Eldrad stepped in. "Do not shoot, Seer-Captain. Do not shoot."

"Seer, you overstep your boundaries." Yvraine smiled. "Command of this ship falls to me. Or did you forget?"

"We stand ready to obey your command, Seer." The seer-captain addressed Eldrad.

"The Lady Yvraine commands here, Seer-Captain," Eldrad said, bowing his head. Yvraine's ears reddened. Chastened, she gave the order to hold fire. "Repeat the message. Send in all variations of Gothic and Lingua Technis," Yvraine added, returning to where Alorynis was curled on the deck. Sensing his mistress's return, Alorynis rose, stretched, and yawned, clawing at the carpet underneath him. A quick look from Yvraine, and the Gyrinx retracted his claws, purring as found his way underneath her dress and wrapped himself around her legs.

"You undermine my authority, Seer." Yvraine glared.

"My lady, I am a mere observer."

"With far too great an interest upon this Izuru Numerial, whom you speak so highly of. What is she worth to you, Seer?"

Eldrad did not answer. He did not place an objective value on family members. And Izuru was family, no matter her heritage.

"Know I am not prepared to tarry if the AdMech refuses to acknowledge us," said Yvraine.

"Patience, Prophet. Know the Ynnari would prosper if you approached the Imperium…"

"You have been consorting with the Veilwalker! She put you up to this."

"Extended the hand of truce."

"With humans? Never."

"It was not so long ago that our kind fought shoulder-to-shoulder…"

"When?"

"The Gothic War."

"Your kind – Craftworlders – not mine. I am a Corsair-turned-Prophet."

"Born on Biel-Tan."

"The Whispering God's chosen. Compare me not with the common-folk. I am one in millions."

 _Such pride. Such arrogance. I suppose it comes with youth._ Eldrad chose not to be dragged in to an argument with the prophet. Though favoured by Ynnead, Yvraine was still Eldar, and would have been wise to pay heed to Eldrad's counsel. Wishing to continue the debate, Yvraine was deterred by the AdMech's reply to the Ynnari's hail.

"Translate." Yvraine commanded. A hulking techpriest, a robed and hooded amalgamation of flesh and cybernetic implants, appeared before her and Eldrad. A transparent blue, the image of the techpriest flickered as the disciple moved. A series of static bursts, seemingly at random, were given.

"…continued transgression will be regarded as an act of war. Revise your heading or feel the brunt of our broadside."

"Act of war!" Yvraine exclaimed. "Their fingers caress their triggers too closely."

"Adeptus Mechanicus warship." Eldrad stepped forwards. "I am Farseer Eldrad Ulthran. I speak for the Lady Yvraine of the Ynnari. We are no pirates."

"Farseer Ulthran. I am Magos Rhoana. You have thirty seconds to withdraw your war-fleet from this system—"

"Let both parties reach a compromise. I pledge to cover your withdrawal from the Cadian System. You are incapable of entering the warp. Let us lead you to a Webway portal."

"A guarantee of a dagger to the back!"

"We are no friends of the Despoiler. Our common enemy benefits from the gathering warp storms. Let the Ynnari offer you aid. Your allies are scattered, disorganised. Now is not the time to fall back on petty prejudice."

Magos Rhoana fell silent. "And what would you gain from this proposed truce?"

"All I ask is to recover one of my people from your ship."

"There are no Eldar aboard my ship."

"I sense her lifeforce. I plea simply to return her to her own people."

"Your fleet deploys first. If you are sincere, further words shall be exchanged."

The Magos terminated on his end. However, fire from the AdMech cruiser had ceased.

"Can your cruisers grant the humans protection?" Eldrad asked the prophet.

"You balance upon a thin wire, Seer. This is my fleet."

"The time has come to wipe the stain from our name, Prophet. The enemy's teeth have broken upon Cadia. He now sets his sights upon the galaxy. If he is victorious, where will you run?"

"We have never needed the humans before. The Ynnari do not need them now."

"It is they who need us. I ask you, who else will you turn to when you and your fleet are all that remain. The Orks? The Tau? The Fallen? The Old Machines? Do away with pride and see the galaxy for what it shall become if we do not act here and now."

Yvraine's command to deploy the fleet was given through her mind. Sensing his mistress's reluctance, Alorynis turned his bright yellow eyes on Eldrad, staring up at him unblinkingly. Though a mere nine cruisers and seventeen escorts, the fleet was quickly deployed in to combat formation, each vessel positioning its bows to the pursuing enemy, whose ships were flooding the warp-engulfed space around Cadia. Seeing the Ynnari were sincere, the Magos reopened communications.

"Had Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl not informed me of your intentions, I would have laid waste to your entire fleet, xenos," Rhoana said.

"Overconfident…" Yvraine whispered.

"Convey my compliments to your archmagos, Magos Rhoana. We seek to aid your cause, not to hinder."

"The Archmagos further granted you access to Moirae. You will come alone. No bodyguard. Bear no arms on your person, lest you invite aggression against your people." The Magos near-spat the words out.

"Accompany me, my lady?" Eldrad offered Yvraine a hand.

"The Visarch shall escort me. I need not the hand of the Seer guiding me," she threw a baleful glare at Eldrad, sweeping from the bridge, her dress spreading out behind her. "I will see this for myself."

Begrudgingly Yvraine gave up her cronesword and bladed fans before boarding her skiff. She had not ordered the Visarch to disarm himself though. _How can one disarm oneself of their psyker ability?_ Eldrad wondered, nodding at the faceless Visarch as he boarded the skiff. Like a heavily-armoured shadow, the Visarch followed Yvraine everywhere. This particular excursion was no exception.

"Pray tell the emissary your interest in this being." Yvraine sat upon a long couch, reclining elegantly. The Visarch took up position opposite her. His hand upon the hilt of his sword. "Or we remain on this ship."

"Izuru Numerial is—"

"Surrogate daughter. I heard you very clearly before, Seer. I want to know the real reason behind this little adventure. Is one being's life worth this venture in to the enemy's camp?" Yvraine's manicured fingers plucked at a bowl of fruit beside her. "I await."

Without hesitation, Eldrad drew back his sleeve, showing Yvraine the growths. "My time draws near."

"I should expect so. Your successor, is she? A heir to be groomed?"

"Shall we talk or act?"

"Please." Yvraine gave a flourish of her arm. "Be seated."

Blasé to the possible danger of disembarking aboard an AdMech ship, Yvraine entertained Eldrad with tales of her time as a gladiator in the Dark City, as unpleasant a place as there ever was. Listening politely, Eldrad pretended to have an interest in Yvraine's anecdotes, extending his mind to brush Izuru's in the meantime. _Why do you not answer me, child?_

Two ranks of mechanical warriors had formed a corridor for the threesome to walk along once they had landed inside the cruiser's hangar and disembarked the skiff. Catching the scent of the oil and lubricant hanging in the air, Eldrad nose wrinkled. A fine film of grime settled upon his skin.

 _Unwashed heathens_ , Yvraine remarked to him as she led Eldrad and the Visarch out from the skiff's belly and past the AdMech troopers. Keeping his thoughts private, Eldrad eyed a repulsor sled being pushed towards him. _Blood of Asuryan._ A stone dropped in his heart as he saw the covered body. _It cannot be_.

 _So passes Izuru Numerial._ _I fear our journey was wasted_. Yvraine's eyes strayed across to Eldrad. _My condolences_.

The years caught up to Eldrad when he took the edge of the wool blanket and lifted it. _Farewell, daughter-of-mine. May your soul be at rest._ Eldrad searched for the Waystone at her neck. _Izuru's Waystone is missing!_

 _Then her soul is lost. I am sorry._ Yvraine turned to depart with the Visarch. _We are finished here_.

 _Never would she have allowed her soulstone to fall at the wayside_ , Eldrad thought, caressing her folded hands. Accompanying the sled as it was guided by an AdMech, Eldrad remained stern-faced, rising above his grief as he had been taught eons ago by his many mentors. Amongst the many dull consciousness' of the AdMech, Eldrad detected a younger, brighter mind belonging to a stranger, out of place, and with an interest in the sled's contents. Looking over his shoulder at Izuru, Eldrad saw a hand appeared from between two AdMech warriors, dropping something on the sled. Tied to a broken cord was the missing spirit stone. A human male in dirty camouflaged fatigues backed away, his dust-flecked head lowered.

 _Who are you?_ Eldrad touched the human's mind. From the brief glimpse Eldrad caught of his face, he noticed tear marks on his cheeks and sore eyes.

 _No-one_ , the young human replied.

 _My thanks_ , _human_. Eldrad bowed his head, taking the sled from the AdMech and guiding it aboard the skiff. Eldrad sat by Izuru's side, turning her sprit stone over in his palm, wondering. No longer pretending to be interested in Yvraine's tales, Eldrad stared at the prophet as she launched in to another account, this time of her corsair days. It broke her off mid-sentence and took all enthusiasm from her voice, quickly leading to her falling silent.

* * *

 ** _Phalanx_ , 21:04 ( _Phalanx_ Time)**

"Larn. 84593820."

Circulation – the great green machine – beckoned. The simple act of writing my name on the dotted line and receiving the green slip from the clerk placed me back in the ranks of the Imperial Guard, where I would fade away. If my criminal record did not catch up to me first.

"You must go back. I cannot shelter you here." Back on _Moirae_ , Lusia gathered my hands in her own. "You must."

"To what? I'm through, Lusia. I've had it," I grunted, trying to wrest myself free from her.

"Surely there were others you called friend? Seek them out. There is nothing for you on _Moirae_."

"…Yeah. There were others. But, I dunno if they got off Cadia or not."

"I will see you to Phalanx. But, from there you must walk alone."

"I don't want to be alone. Please don't leave me alone."

"You will not be alone. There will be hundreds of poor, lost souls in search of companionship."

"Maybe they just want to be alone too…"

"Company – human company – will ease your pain." The glow in Lusia's eyes dimmed. "You _must_ go."

"Will you get me there?"

"I will. You have my word."

Two days since the end of the evacuation and the coming of the Eldar, _Moirae_ closed the gap between the main body of the fleet, drawing within shuttle range of _Phalanx_. True to her word, Lusia borrowed a lighter and flew me over to _Phalanx_.

"Why haven't we gone warpside?" I wondered aloud, my gaze drawn to a fat-bellied hauler whose plasma drives were nothing but faint specks, where each should have been miniature suns.

"The navigators are unable to plot safe routes through the warp, James. That agri-hauler cannot be saved."

Similar problems were plaguing the other ships, of which there were a scant two-dozen. The forty-hour endurance was putting the plasma drives under immeasurable strain, leading to catastrophic failure in some cases. Transports were launched from the agri-hauler and directed to _Phalanx_. There was not a chance that every single soul could have escaped the dying ship. _Trapped rats_ , I thought, touching Lusia's shoulder.

"Omnissiah protect them."

Admitted in to Phalanx's airspace, Lusia guided the lighter between the mighty forearms, docking in the foredeck's hangars with a flock of other personnel ships that had arrived en-masse from the stragglers. "This is it." Lusia swivelled in her chair and stood up to face me. "Good luck, James."

"Thanks, Lusia." I looked down at my feet, a lump rising in my throat.

"Oh, James." Lusia's cold arms embraced me. "I wish you all the best."

"Yeah. You too."

Ruffling my hair, Lusia let me go. "This is yours. I have no use for it." She parted with a stick of polymer about the width of my forefinger and length of my little finger.

"What is it?"

"Everything on the Genus Project."

"That was purged though. You got rid of it…"

"I purged the archive and kept a copy."

"I don't want… It was for her, not me."

"Please. A parting gift. Go now. Omnissiah watch over you, James."

Taking the files, I shambled alone in to the crowd of displaced personnel, reeling off my name and serial number to the armed and unsmiling clerk behind a reinforced pane of plexiglass when I approached.

"All weaponry on your person must be returned to the Departmento Munitorum before further admittance," the clerk droned. Unclipping my belt, I passed my kit through the slot to the quartermaster. Aside from my empty canteen, ammunition pouches, combat knife, and pistol holster, I carried nothing. My empty Moses I had tucked inside my trousers at the small of my back. I would not part with that under any circumstances.

Past the scrutiny of the Munitorum lifers, a hall of towering statues utterly dwarfed me. Banners hanging from the mist-covered ceiling were ruffled by the passing guardsmen whose feet spread a layer of filth across the polished floor. My own scuffed boots were as dirty as the rest, tarnishing the shine. A collective odour of unwashed bodies and oil-stained fatigues occupied the air, reminding me of the cellars packed with civilians and drunken guardsmen at Kraf. Here though there was no alcohol. I doubted any form of drink was permitted in the holy place we were intruding on. Galleries displaying art and captured arms I passed, my eyes on the back of the person in front of me. Never deviating. A cloud of depression hung over the crowds. Nobody knew anybody else.

A flock without a shepherd, we wandered through galleries, past scriptoriums and libraries, all of it off-limits to us. The Marine guards posted outside watched us keenly, their fingers resting outside the trigger-guard of their bolters. A gathering in an open court slowed the procession to a crawl. Balconies, overlooking the open space from above, occupied four corners of the court. In the centre, the rectangular base of a statue bore picts, medals, and messages written on scraps of paper. Left on the floor around it were flowers, caps, berets, and unit badges. A few of the waiting hopefuls shouted out as they recognised friends or loved ones, rushing over to embrace them. Many more jostled to find a way through to the front, pushing at shoulders to get a look at the memorial. Some cradled mementoes, comforted by strangers. A few tears were shed. I stood alone near the edge of the crowd, staring through the memorial. Turning away, I collided with a Cadian, my shoulder connecting with his, provoking a squawk from him. The complaint bounced off the bubble that separated me from every other living being in existence. I wandered off, trudging away from the crowd, not knowing where I would go next.

The man in the greatcoat approached me from the front, stopping with his hands in his pockets, facing me squarely. From behind, another in a greatcoat halted some ten paces behind me. _Is this it? Not even half an hour of freedom and now I'm heading straight back to prison?_

Passive, the man in front glanced at a doorway to my left. His hands remained in his pockets. A creak of leather came from behind. The other's hands also in his pockets, no doubt. _Does he want me to go that way?_ Sidling through the open door, I climbed a set of stairs, the soft pad of the two strangers close behind. Very soon, I found myself on the balcony overlooking the memorial. Unlit, the area had not seen occupants for a while if the coolness was anything to go by. The strangers, their hands still in their pockets, stood silently at the head of the stairs watching me. Glowering, I picked out the shape of a person seated in the far corner, where the shadows were deepest. Cocking my head, I slapped the edge of the balcony, running my hand along the varnished wood.

"Carrying a concealed weapon. Wouldn't want to add that to your rap sheet, would we?"

The crowds were still milling around the memorial below. A few more couples were celebrating their reunion, blissfully uncaring of their public displays of affection. Their happiness turning my face red, I leant back on the balcony, eyeing the silhouette. _Come on then. Show yourself_.

"Arvin – no, James! You prefer James, don't you?"

The man I had known as Oruc Veen stood up from behind the table he sat at and came over. His garb was of the same fineness as the Inquisitor's. A coal-black jerkin over a white shirt with frilled cuffs. Fitted over one arm was a sky-blue tunic with silver buttons. Veen appeared to be wearing only one sleeve, with the majority of the tunic hanging from his left shoulder, kept only in place by a cord running across his chest and around his armpit. There were definite marks of grey at the man's temples, and more lines underneath his eyes.

"Pardon me. Your sidearm." Veen smiled. No holsters of sheaths could be seen on the waist-high leather belt he wore. Nor did he wear any insignia indicating who he worked for. Under the three pairs of eyes, I took my Moses out and passed it to Veen by the grip.

"Empty." Veen weighed the weapon in his hand. "Still, no harm in keeping this for now. Would you like a drink?" Veen returned to the table, laid the Moses on the surface and came back with a pair of mugs. "I hope this one is still cool," he said, placing one of them in my hand. Blinking at the white liquid, I sniffed at the contents. There was a thin tube standing up straight in the mug. _To stir?_

"Ah, pardon me. It's milk. I enjoy a glass of milk before bed." Veen clinked his mug against mine. "Here's to a job very well done."

"What d'you want?"

"Mm, to congratulate you, of course."

"Why?"

"Oh, come-come, James. Are you going to drink that?"

Touching the china with my lips, I lifted the mug and tilted it back. Cool, refreshing milk trickled down my dry throat.

"Osvat Radu Zeleska has long been of great interest to us…"

"Who's us?"

"Who we are you will find out. On one condition, which I shall get to." Veen snapped his fingers. "Where was I…? Zeleska was, put short, an embarrassment, both to Ordo Hereticus and to – well – anyone else he had dealings with. Kidnapping, sexual abuse, torture, murder, and exceeding his authority to the point of treason. The Lord Inquisitor's patience wore out, James. He was quite pleased to strike Zeleska's name off the roster and obliterate him. For your part in the termination of his office, I thank you." Veen stuck his free hand out, expecting me to shake.

"What about Izuru Numerial?"

"Aha. Of course, the xenos's assistance was vital, was it not? A most effective warrior. Shame about her."

Izuru's name flung about so casually made a muscle in my jaw tighten. Grinding my teeth, I squeezed the mug, picturing it smashing against Veen's skull. "What about Cyrano Semirechye. Olen Azar. Callum Lorne. Ben Borens?"

"Casualties are taken during every operation, James." Veen sighed. "Do you how many fought on Cadia? Eighteen billion. Now, do you know how many were saved from annihilation? Three million. There are three million beings spread across the twenty-four vessels in this fleet. That number _will_ change very soon." Veen took the mug from my hand. "Listen now. You are not the only person who has experienced loss. Look at those souls down there. Look at them! They are there for the exact reason you are. The galaxy does not revolve around you, James. I would flush this idealistic impression you have of matters from your mind and get your head together." Without pause, Veen replaced the mugs on the table and picked up a thin envelope. "For you."

"I don't want anything from you."

"There are less-than-savoury options we can discuss, if you so wish it." Veen pressed the envelope in to my hand. "I urge you to consider my offer now."

I turned the manila envelope over in my hand, working the seal free with my thumb, and removing one of several sheets of paper inside.

"That's just my endorsement I wrote for you." Veen took sheet from me. "The important information is just behind it."

 _Endorsement?_ I separated another two pieces of text-heavy paper, taking one out and examining it. The neatly-typed letters performed somersaults and swam around in dizzying circles. Shivering suddenly, I vaguely read my own name and something about a commendation.

"It will be a two-year tour, James. Then, once you have those two years' experience underneath your belt, you will be working for me."

My jaw trembled. "W-why?"

"You are a dangerous person. Attractively dangerous, I might add."

"I've – I've done things… bad things on Cadia."

Veen shook his head. "Irrelevant. Cadia is but a memory. You saw the planet's destruction, or maybe heard about it. I urge you to rinse your mind of these so-called 'bad things' you may have done. Cleanse your mind and read what you have in your hands."

"I've read it."

"And?"

"…I can't."

"You came aboard alone. You searched for your friends. Anyone you may have known on Cadia. I know where you can find them."

My heart jumped. "Who. How many?"

"Accept my offer, and I will take you to them, James."

Warm in my grasp now, the edges of the paper were crumpled. Thinking, I ran my tongue across the roof of my mouth. _Could he be lying? How much does he know about Cadia?_

"If you wish to think it over…"

"Alright."

"I'm sorry?"

"Yes. I'll do it."

"You are certain?"

"Yes. I'm certain."

"Good chap." Grinning, Veen offered me his hand, shaking heartily when I clasped it, jiggling the entire length of my arm, numbing my shoulder. "Let me be the first to offer my congratulations, 2nd Lieutenant."

* * *

 ** _The Avenging Blade_**

Left undisturbed for the duration of the day and night cycle inside the _Blade's_ mortuary, Eldrad Ulthran stood watch over Izuru's body, his ruminations dispersed with prayers to the Phoenix King, the Mother, and the other gods he knew the names of. _Had I the power, I would bring you back to me, child. Had I the power._

"Begone," he said aloud, covering up Izuru's face and turning to face the intruder.

"Your tongue is quick to sharpen, Seer." Yvraine strutted from the shadows. Neither the Gyrinx nor the Visarch kept her company. In place of her girthy dress, Yvraine wore slim-fitting robes of a deep violet. Without her headdress, she appeared a great deal less imposing. "Beg pardon. I do not come to you an adversary." Yvraine folded her hands in front of her and stood opposite the dais Izuru lay on. "Know that I have reached a decision. I felt I could not share it with anybody but yourself."

"I would ask you to withhold it for now, my lady." Eldrad shut his eyes. Contemplating, he rubbed the tip of his forefinger with his thumb, tapping it upon the stone. "Know you of death?"

"I was close enough to feel her breath upon my neck before I was yanked back to existence. T'was before I met the Visarch, you know. He and I escaped the Dark City together…"

"Not a close acquaintance?"

"With death? My-my, dear Seer, you ask the impossible…"

"I have not asked yet."

"Death." Yvraine began to pace. "Death takes and gives. She is a mixture of cruelty and kindness, benevolence and spite. Quick to anger, yet never begrudging. Her reasoning is utterly incomprehensible to mortals."

"You have an insight."

"I am not whom you need to address, Seer." Yvraine passed behind Eldrad, caressing his shoulder.

"Look." Eldrad showed Yvraine the spreading crystals in his arm. "A younger, keener mind must represent Ulthwé on the Ynnari Council. A veteran. One not blinded by arrogance or driven by prejudice against the younger races. A being that has risen above petty malice and spent time amongst the humans."

"Ah, of course. The wonders of an enlightened mind…"

"Death takes and gives."

"Indeed."

"Yvraine, you are the Prophet!" Eldrad gripped the edge of the stone, digging marks in the surface. "Can it be done?"

"A debt would lie between us. I ask first, what can you offer me in return?"

"Ulthwé's full co-operation. We stand behind you and your cause, Yvraine. We pledge our bodies, our weapons, and our souls to you. Lead us, Prophet."

"And your own body and soul. Do you pledge to part with them willingly?"

"I swear to offer every fibre of my being while I am able to."

Yvraine tossed her head, placing a hand on her hip. "You would a need a god's favour to even hope of accomplishing such a feat."

"Can it be done?" Eldrad leant forwards, his fingers white against the stone.

Yvraine smiled up at Eldrad, her eyes twinkling. _Shall we begin?_


	51. Author's Notes

**Author's Notes:**

Firstly, let me begin with an apology. It concerns the first story in this series: _The Mad Game,_ which many readers noticed was removed some time ago from the website. Now that _Where the Stars of Terra Grow_ is complete, I intend to do a rewrite of _TMG,_ correcting grammar, punctuation, paragraphing, chapter length, and plot; otherwise bringing it up to the standard of _Flesh_ and _Stars._ I believe it wholly necessary to get the series going from the start – immediately after _Fifteen Hours_ ends – again, and bridge the gap between it and _Flesh_. Once _TMG_ is done and published, I plan on writing a sequel to _Stars._ I have only the barebones of ideas but, fear not, it will be written in the future and will likely be a culmination of the series.

The idea for writing around the 13th Black Crusade and the Fall of Cadia came from the _Gathering Storm_ supplements. Book One, aptly titled _Fall of Cadia_ was a major source of inspiration for the story setting. Before anything about Cadia is mentioned, I will briefly touch on the less-important and non-canonical fall of Nemesis Tessera. While Nemtess was in the path of the Chaos warfleets at the onset of the 13th Black Crusade, they did not deal a crushing defeat to the imperial forces stationed there, ending with the Craftworld Eldar generously evacuating a portion of the troops on to their own ships, rather the Inquisitorial fortress there actually stood firm against repeated assaults from surface and orbital assaults. At this stage of the crusade, the Eldar had not yet approached the Imperium with an offer of a truce.

Canonically, no Eldar were involved in the struggle on Cadia's surface or in orbit. The conflict was fought entirely between the Imperium and the Forces of Chaos, with some participation by the Necron Overlord Trazyn. On the whole, the five-week-long invasion depicted in _Stars_ butts heads with canon as it really took Cadia several months from the initial skirmishes in space, to the landings, and the eventual fall of, first Cadia Primus then Cadia Secundus, leading up to the final defence of Kasr Kraf and the fight both on and beneath the Elysion Fields. I streamlined the Fall of Cadia simply for story's sake. Any major events I accounted for on the pages of _Stars_ did occur during canon: the defence of Kraf's curtain wall, the titanic explosion that saw the destruction of Kasr Stark, the push on to the Elysion Fields by Ursarker Creed and The Lord Castellan's Own, the firing of the Pylons, and the planet's destruction by Abaddon ramming the crippled Blackstone Fortress _Will of Eternity_ in to Cadia Tertius. The smaller, low-key firefights: the defence of Firebase Rakkassan, the skirmishes the protagonists are caught up in during the retreat to Kraf, and the final showdown against the primary antagonist, for example, are fictional stories laid out on the canon background.

On the whole, I tried to keep as many locations seen, visited, or mentioned by the characters as near to canon as I could. Every Kasr: Kraf, Jark, Luten, Stark, and Hollen are real. The continents: Primus, Secundus, and Tertius are real. The Shrine of Saint Morrican, the _Sword of Defiance_ , the crashed strike cruiser belonging to the Dark Angels, as well as the Gehennis Escarpment, the Kolarak Plains, and Martyr's Rampart are also real. The exact locations of these places are not given in canon, so I made a rough approximation of each's whereabouts, using Kraf as a centre-point and arranging everything else around it. Rakka, as well as the location of the climax of the primary story arc, the inner citadel of Kasr Kraf and the two towers: Tleilax and Arrakis, are fictional.

A fair portion of the characters the protagonists encounter are real or either have their basis in a real-life figure. Ursarker Creed, the indomitable general and lord castellan of Cadia, his sergeant major – colour sergeant in canon – Jarran Kell were too important to leave out. True, it was Creed's leadership that Cadia was balancing on, and all of the important decisions regarding strategy, as well as the ace up his sleeve he drew – the concentrated armoured thrust on to the Elysion Fields from the north – were instrumental in allowing countless others to evacuate whilst he sacrificed himself on the fields with the Cadian Eighth (8 Brigade in _Stars_ ). Now, aside from Creed there weren't really any other brass that were given the spotlight, making it seem the battles were fought by him and him alone. As General Officer Commanding of all ground forces on Cadia, Creed certainly had no business in taking to the field at all, though he still chose to take up the mantle of brigade commander, leading to his wounding and capture by Trazyn. Major General Alexis Rebbeck, the GOC of 1st Guards Division, later GOC I Corps, took over from Creed and commanded the evacuation effort on the ground. Rebbeck, along with Rear Admiral Oslam Seger, Captain Dalmut Meynell, and Commander Jack Cudden, are based off real-life officers. The Navy officers, with the exception of Admiral Quarren, are fictional, but were necessary in giving the Navy actual presence on the ground. About the principal AdMech character Belisarius Cawl, I portrayed him as an innovator, a borderline mad scientist, if you will. In canon, he personally never had any interactions with the Eldar, with the exception of Sylandri Veilwalker. Andalusia too, is something of an eccentric, though sincere and kindly to her friends. The only Space Marine character given a name is Orven Highfell, who commanded the Space Wolves' Great Company from Kasr Jark. Other chapters are mentioned: The Dark Angels, Black Templars, and Imperial Fists, whose timely arrival in orbit with the Phalanx helped greatly with the fleet actions and the evacuation. As in _Flesh_ , the Marines are not central to the plot, nor is the big picture. Concerning the Eldar characters, the conflict between Macha – who is Eldrad Ulthran's daughter in canon – and Izuru was invented for the story. Canonically, Macha did seek aid because of the daemonic infiltration of Biel-Tan, her home, though she did not instigate a coup during her father's absence and divert Ulthwé's expeditionary fleet from their original destination of Cadia. Shadowseer Sylandri Veilwalker and the corsair Avele Swifteye, both minor characters, habit canon as well, though the latter does not die during the descent to Cadia from the _Grace of the Mother_. The Emissary of Ynnead, Yvraine, is quite possibly the most important Eldar character, and I felt it necessary to include her, if only fleetingly, for it was she who extended her hand to the Imperium – in the story it is Eldrad pushing her to do it, as she is reluctant, seeing what happened to the human-sympathiser Izuru – to form an alliance, being instrumental in resurrecting a very important being; one that could lead the Imperium in the future.

Inspiration from real-life conflicts was taken in portraying the fight for Cadia, most notably the Battle of France and the retreat by the British, French, and Belgians to Dunkirk during the Second World War. Cadia, a symbol of defiance, and a substitute for France, had held for ten-thousand years, beating back the dozen crusades Abaddon the Despoiler had launched in an attempt to crush the strongpoint. Nobody expected Cadia to fall, as with France at the beginning of the war. For had France not held out for four long years in the previous war? France was in possession of a bigger and better-equipped army than its foe, yet it still fell with alarming swiftness due to the indecisiveness and out-of-touch nature the aged generals were with the concepts of manoeuvre warfare. This was not the case with Cadia, whose astounding leadership from the highest generals to the lowest section commanders was second to none. It was only the plummeting Blackstone Fortress, colliding with Cadia's equator, that saw the very planet break in half. Truly the planet broke before the Guard, the Navy, or the Marines did, for there were isolated units still fighting on the surface even after the last ships had departed. As with the withdrawal through France to the coast, the retreat undertaken by Larn and his allies is marked by heaving columns of refugees, all off-worlders, for there were technically no civilians on Cadia, heaps of motor transport either bombed or left behind by their owners who were under orders to deny any and all transport to the enemy, and systematic bombings by enemy aircraft that appeared to be in control of the skies. Kraf, as with Dunkirk, is depicted as a bombed-out ruin with soldiers and civilians taking shelter inside unlit cellars, where many are in a state of drunkenness after the mains were disrupted. The airbase, in as sorry a state as the rest of Kraf, was put out of action in a similar manner as the port of Dunkirk was. Orders to prioritise evacuating the able-bodied were in effect. Furthermore, the Cadians, as with the British Army, would take priority over any other unit in getting off. Heavy daylight bombings forced both evacuations to take place mainly at night and, at Kraf, it was only the timely arrival of the Imperial Fists, bringing fresh ships, both military and merchant, that allowed the evacuation to resume in daylight as air cover, which had been non-existent before, now shielded the personnel ships, allowing them to take on passengers without fear of bombing.

As mentioned before, many of the human characters – both canon and non-canon – were inspired by real-life figures. Ursarker Creed, for starters, is a rough caricature of the British bulldog and former PM Winston Churchill, the gruff, charismatic cigar-chomper who was a standing symbol of defiance against tyranny. Alongside Churchill, in _Stars_ , I have likened Creed to General Lord Gort, who commanded the British Expeditionary Force in France during the German invasion. Gort, though not without flaws, quite possibly saved the BEF by immediately ordering it to withdraw north to the coast, in defiance of orders to attack southwards. Gort was, on 1 June, ordered home, and was replaced by Major General Harold Alexander, the former commander of 1st Division, now GOC of I Corps. It is off Alexander whom I have based Major General Alexis Rebbeck. Both men, fine officers, conducted their operation with coolness and professionalism, and it was as true for Rebbeck as it was for Alexander, both made sure they were among the last to be evacuated, only leaving after making certain that the last troops were off. This leads me on to the three principal naval officers. The first: Rear-Admiral Oslam Seger is based off Amiral Jean Abrial as well as Rear-Admiral William Wake-Walker. Both senior naval officers, the former commanded the French evacuation from Dunkirk – and was not initially informed that the British were evacuating – believing they could maintain a foothold on French soil. The latter, appointed commander of all ships off the coast, was forced to operate from a naval launch after his flagship Keith – _Kosper_ in the story – was destroyed. Commander Jack Cudden is based off Jamie Campbell Clouston, a Canadian who acted as pier-master at Dunkirk, and was tragically killed whilst returning from a conference at the Admiralty in Dover. Cudden's fate mirrors Clouston's, both were killed when their naval launches were attacked mid-trip. Lastly, Captain Dalmut Meynell is a composite of Captain William Tennant, the senior naval officer who commanded the British evacuation at Dunkirk. Both men, staying right until the very end, made sure that all who could be rescued were. Meynell and Tennant were lauded for their successful efforts in rescuing so many.

Unit-wise, most of the formations in _Stars_ are based off real-life regiments, either foreign or in the British Army. The poster-boys and girls for the Imperial Guard: the Cadian Shock Troops I have based off the British Guards formations with a smattering of Israeli Defence Force in there. Think Coldstreams, Grenadiers, Welsh, Irish, and Scots Guards and the somewhat elitist attitude they had over the regular infantry divisions, and the fact that each Cadian had to do a period of service, as citizens do in the IDF. If accents can be applied to Warhammer – where every human speaks Gothic – then the Nerians, survivors of the units that fought on Nemtess, sound Canadian. The Canadians were known as the 'Shock Army of the British Empire', renowned for their ferocity in attack and tenacity in defence. The Atreides Cavalry – Cyrano's unit – had its roots in the Russian Cossack hosts. Cyrano was even named after a certain unit – the Semirechye Host. He held the rank _sotnik_ which was equivalent to a senior lieutenant. Peter and Woulter Leurbach's unit, the Tabor Territorials, was essentially a Home Guard formation made up of men either underage or overage. Both father and son being too young and too old to serve in a proper combat formation. Their khaki uniform took elements from the British Army Battledress worn during and after the Second World War. Uniform of the same cut, albeit rougher, was worn by the 92nd Gellen Highlanders. The section of Highlanders was based off the Black Watch, formerly the Royal Highland Regiment. The unique beret they wore was the Tam-O-Shanter bonnet. The Cyrric Rangers that attacked Rakka took inspiration from the various Belgian and French mercenary groups that operated in the Congo in the 1960s, being well-equipped with small and heavy-calibre weaponry and transported by flatbeds with mounted weapons. Their mish-mash of uniforms was quite common in a merc outfit. The name Voynuk Siphani is a play on words of the Spahis, who were light cavalry recruited by France from Algeria, Tunisia, and Morocco. The Siphanis themselves are closer to colonial troops France fielded during the First World War, possessing blue uniforms with outdated leather webbing, their lasguns as well were older models.

Along with the units and events, I have based many uniforms, kit, small-arms, armoured fighting vehicles, and aircraft off existing examples, which I will not list in full, for fear of boring you with every single weapon and piece of equipment that was featured in _Stars_. I urge you to check out the glossary at the end of _Flesh_ if you are interested in reading about some of the weapons and vehicles. Just a minor example, but the autocannon Izuru operated competently whilst defending the perimeter around Kraf was a near-mirror replica of a Solothurn S-18/1000, a 20-millimetre anti-tank rifle built by the Swiss, known for its significant kick-back and extreme weight; 122 pounds loaded to be exact. Another weapon, this one a rifle, was the Arowana also used by Izuru. It is based off a Russian SVD Dragunov with wooden furniture, but chambered for a higher calibre, 9.5-millimetre, and firing from a ten-round magazine. The Gerax rifle, used by Larn and the Gerax Jaegers – themselves based off the German Fallschirmjaeger – was an FG-42 equipped with a ZF-4 scope and loaded with 25 rounds in a custom MG-13 magazine. These are just a few of the small-arms and man-packed weaponry that are featured in _Stars_.

While many high-profile figures are featured in the story, _Stars,_ as _Flesh_ was before it, is about regular humans – with the exception of the heroine Izuru Numerial – and their attempts to survive the horrors of warfare in the 41st millennium. The protagonist, Larn, as well as his fellow soldiers, is an otherwise normal human, albeit resourceful, learned after surviving his previous battles, and lucky. Larn himself – if one previously read the authors notes of _The Mad Game –_ was inspired by a similar soldier, nothing more than a young squaddie. Larn speaks with a Derbyshire accent, unique to him. Izuru - she has a faint middle-eastern accent - also bears a likeness to a real-life person. Another soldier, tough, resourceful, and never giving up.

As ever, I'd like to say a thank you to anybody who favourited, followed, or left their review of _Stars._ It is immensely appreciated. Any questions you might have on the plot, characters, weapons, battles, or locations, please don't hesitate to PM me.

 _PhantomStag458_


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